


Still Going Epic

by ArtemisXYZ



Category: Veronica Mars (TV), Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, POV First Person, Rewrite, What could've been, What-If
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2020-08-13 18:56:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20179111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtemisXYZ/pseuds/ArtemisXYZ
Summary: What if...it was all a dream? What if, in a, let's say, parallel dimension, someone decided to terminate Neptune's spring break activities using very deadly means, and the dynamic father-daughter duo of Mars Investigation were all over the case? Would things turn out differently?





	1. A dream, a truth and a homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> This is an alternative universe, parallel dimension, parallel timeline (whatever you prefer) version of Season 4, because I can be lazy, too, use an already established storyline and then throw in a trope to turn it all around.

I smile as I close the window, returning to packing what I probably won’t be needing for our honeymoon, when it hits me...

_...heroes around whom we’re doting..._

The look on the bastard’s face as he looked at me from inside the cruiser. The smugness, the barely hidden contempt. _“Guess what, hero...”_

_The backpack the bastard put in my car. It’s a bomb!_

I run to the window, calling my husband’s name, hoping against hope that I’m not too late to save him, when the blast knocks me back onto the bed as shards of glass rain down on me, stinging my face.

Car alarms start blaring on the street as I start to shake...As I scream his name...

“Logan!”

I snap awake with a start, shaking and clammy with sweat.

Something cold and wet is bumping against my neck, something is scratching against my exposed upper arm and huffing, whining sounds have finally started to come through the rushing of blood in my ears.

I look down and see Pony, obviously desperate to wake me, trying to scramble up my side of the bed. He must’ve sensed my distress and came to investigate.

I sink my fingers into his short fur, his presence grounding me in the present, in reality.

“It’s okay, boy,” I whisper, pressing my lips against his forehead. “I’m awake now. I’m fine. It was only a bad dream.”

He obviously doesn’t understand, since he’s still trying to climb onto the bed with me, so I scoot away from the edge, allowing him to jump in beside me.

“It’s okay, Pony,” I coo, partly to keep him calm, and partly for my own benefit. “It was only a bad dream. A stupid dream, to boot,” I add, cuddling around him. “Who doesn’t check the car after a crazy bomber’s been in it? I know the police force around here isn’t exactly stellar, but they’re not stupid. And Mars Investigations even less so.”

But as I close my eyes, running my fingers down Pony’s ears, I can’t help but tremble at the more-than-merited fear of losing Logan. Him dying because of a jackass leaving his backpack-bomb in my car was a dream, but the threat is real.

_He might not come back from one of his missions..._

Pony snuggles closer, whining slightly, and I clutch at him, desperately wanting to hear Logan’s voice, know that he’s okay. But until our next Skype call or his next leave, I’m in the dark as to his well-being. All I have are his voicemails I’ve been hoarding to keep the nightmares and fears at bay.

In the morning, all that I really remember about the nightmare is that final blast and the desperation that flooded me in that moment, while the rest is shrouded in misty clouds of forgetfulness.

Still, there’s something that’s bothering me, a niggling of a memory, keeping my apprehension ratcheted up to the max.

“I was a real bitch to everybody. The details are more than fuzzy, but I do remember that part,” I tell Jane. Our usual appointment isn’t until the end of the week, but I called her once I got to the MI offices, unable to shake the flimsy memory of my behavior toward everybody in my dreamscape.

“Is that what you’re afraid of?” she asks me in that soothing, melodic voice of hers.

When I’d finally caved into Logan’s pressuring me to at least meet with his therapist—which I know he did out of worry for me, because he loves me and wants the best for me, which in this case is dealing with issues both my own and our combined ones—Jane Meyer’s mannerism really set my teeth on edge.

But if my degree from Stanford taught me anything, it was that I tend to run away from things I don’t care to examine too closely. My initial dislike of Jane had nothing to do with _her_, and everything to do with me and my tendency to bury my head in the sand. Or pack up and leave.

It was that, coupled with the dejected look on Logan’s face, the one he quickly masked, because he’s so good at that having learned it from an early age, that made me reevaluate going to therapy. Actually talk to someone who doesn’t know me, an objective observer, someone who doesn’t judge. Granted, I’m still skittish at times, but I like Jane. I trust Jane. I trust her, because Logan trusts her. I trust her with my issues, because Logan trusts her with his.

We’re not people who easily trust. The doubt is ingrained in our DNA, albeit for different reasons, but distrust is one more thing we have in common.

She doesn’t know everything about me, I know Logan hasn’t told her everything he still keeps bottled inside, but she certainly knows more than my dad, which makes her the person who knows me the second most. The first being Logan.

If nothing else, Logan and I will be always and forever bound by the joined secrets we keep and issues we share.

“Veronica?” Jane gently prompts and I shake my head to get back into the present.

“Sorry,” I say sheepishly.

I haven’t been listening, but she merely smiles and repeats her question, “Is that what you’re afraid of? Being ‘a bitch’ to everybody?”

I nod slightly. “I’m afraid she’s in here somewhere,” I say, placing my hand on my chest. “I’m afraid _that_’s who I really am and this seemingly adjusted woman I present to the world is just a mask.”

Jane nods, uncrosses her legs, and leans forward. “She’s a part of you, yes, she’s what helped you cope in highschool. She was your armor, but you don’t need her anymore. You know it, Logan knows it, your father knows it, your friends know it. You’re a successful young woman with two degrees, you have a normal, grown-up life with grown-up responsibilities. Rent, monthly costs, a dog...You have a family—”

“What if something happens to that family?” I whisper and Jane smiles.

I realize she has me right where she wanted me from the beginning, from the moment I told her about the dream and how it ended.

“If something happens to Logan, you mean,” she says slowly as my heart speeds up. “She might come back to the surface to help you cope or she might not.”

I open my mouth, although I don’t really know what to say, but she’s not done yet.

“It’s normal to fear for your loved ones’ safety. It’s normal to fear for your father, it’s normal to fear for your friends, and it’s normal to fear for your lover’s life, especially with Logan’s line of work, but you cannot let that fear dictate your life. You must not let that fear win, because if you do—”

“The bitch will be back,” I finish.

“Exactly,” Jane agrees. “Have you talked about this with Logan?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

I squeeze the green stress-ball until my knuckles turn white. “Because...I don’t want him to feel guilty about his job. He loves it and he needs the discipline and order of it. And I’m so proud of him for what he does, for how he’s turned his life around, of the man he’s become. I’m so proud of him protecting us all. I don’t want to take it away from him...”

“And you won’t,” Jane soothes. “He might feel guilty for making you worry, but it’s important for you two to communicate. It’s important that he knows you can talk to him about this, about your fears for his safety. It just might help him communicate his own fears about _your_ safety as well.”

Yeah, because _that_ had gone so well in college...

“You’re not the same people you were in college, Veronica,” Jane says as if she’s reading my mind. “You’re in a long-term, committed relationship. You should be able to communicate with your partner, you should be able to talk to him about anything and everything, and vice versa, especially given you long history with each other.”

I nod. I know we’re not the same Logan and Veronica from college. We’ve changed as people are bound to do. We’ve grown closer together in the past five years as we’ve navigated the highs and lows of our relationship, succeeding in not making the same mistakes that had doomed us in the past.

And communication was key in making it work. I guess we’re not done communicating just yet.

“Good. You need to keep telling him how you feel. No matter what,” Jane says. “Our time is almost up, do you want to also keep our regular appointment or shall we see each other next week?”

“Next week,” I say quickly. Once a week is more than enough...Unless... “But can I call you if...You know?”

_Jesus, am I pathetic or what?_

Jane merely smiles, gentle and sweet, no mockery in sight. “You can call me anytime you like. You also have my home number, if you need to talk. I’m always available for a chat.”

I return her smile, but leave with just a hurried, “Thanks, doc,” thrown over the shoulder. I do have an image to uphold after all.

I’m reading dad’s text about tonight’s planned meeting at City Hall about the nut jobs or something like that as I unlock the door. I might just join him, it’s not like I have plans or anything for tonight. Mac’s on her much deserved vacation, Wallace has a thing at school and Logan is only-God-knows-where.

Pony’s enthusiasm knows no bounds; like we haven’t seen each other just a few hours ago, like we haven’t slept in the same bed tonight. He just loves me so...Or maybe he has to pee.

“Hey, Pony,” I coo, squatting in front of him and rubbing his adorable face. There goes my tough-chick image, straight through the still open door behind my back. “Hey, buddy. Do you have to pee, huh? You better, because if you don’t have to pee, it means you peed—”

I reach for his leash, see the well-known bag where there wasn’t one in the morning, and all thoughts of a peeing Pony magically disappear in a puff of smoke inside my head, leaving only one.

_He’s home._

“Daddy’s home?” I whisper to Pony, excitement and anticipation slowly creeping through me.

I quickly shed my jacket and bag, stuff my gun in its safe, yet another thrill coursing through me as I see Logan’s weapon inside it—_he’s home!_—thank my luck that I put on a nice pair of underwear this morning, so I don’t have to lose more time changing, and kick off my shoes.

I know where I’ll find him and heeled ankle boots are a nightmare on sand.

Finally ready, I grab Pony’s leash and together we go in search of ‘daddy’.

We haven’t made it very far, when I see Logan emerge from the waves, board tucked under his right arm, water glistening on his body—is it me, or is he slightly broader in his shoulders than he was a few weeks ago?—, the tiny blue trunks leaving nothing to the imagination.

I lick my lips in anticipation of having that body all over and around me in just a few minutes, but some of the excitement is quickly swallowed by possessive ire when I see two spring-breakers have noticed the demigod rising from the waters and are openly ogling and arguing who should be first in line.

_As if_.

That’s my man they’re stripping with their eyes—not that he’s wearing much, damn those tiny blue trunks—and it won’t do.

The mood strikes to do a little bit of trolling, anything to shut them up and stop them from looking—who knew I could be such a jealously possessive woman—but he’s already seen me and made a beeline for our strange quartet.

Damn, just looking at him makes me all hot and bothered, I can’t wait to get my hands on all that bounty.

_Mine_, my inner cavewoman cackles with glee as all thoughts of any attempts at trolling the two bitches flee.

It’s not like we haven’t done it before. Logan is nothing if not quick to catch on and serve a nice comeback. A few weeks back, right before his latest job-related disappearance, we did the ‘I’ll trade a handjob for you moving my fridge’ bit and it was hilarious, but the fact is, I’m impatient to get him out of range of the two floozies and alone, and frankly, I’m feeling a little dumbed down at the moment, with all my blood having flown out of by brain and downward.

“Hey, there,” he says with a smile, his eyes heated.

_Oh, hell yeah._

My fingers must’ve gone numb along with my brain, because Pony’s leash is no longer in my hands and the dog in question is all over Logan.

“Hey, baby,” he coos, making me melt a little more. “Did you miss me in this past hour we haven’t seen each other?”

“I know _I_ missed you,” I blurt, snark and possible finesse elusive at the moment.

His eyes snap from Pony up to me, a question in them, mixed with pleasure and want.

_Screw this_. “There’s no line here, ladies,” I mutter, never looking at the two spring-breakers, as I step forward. “Seek elsewhere.”

I press myself against his gorgeous, hard, wet body, lift my arms to cup the back of his neck, grin at the surprise that flashes in his eyes—I still might not be a big fan of PDA, but I don’t really care at the moment—and lift my mouth to his.

He meets me halfway, lifting me slightly, with the arm not holding his precious surfboard, to help us align better, and everything else disappears. The beach, the revelry, the crowd, the two floozies...Nothing exists but me and this man I’d do absolutely anything for.


	2. The proposal

We spend hours getting reacquainted with each other, with each others’ bodies, fingers, lips and tongues running over lines and curves, tracing old marks, seeking new. It’s only been a couple of weeks this time, but it had seemed an eternity, and no matter how much time we’ve been together, we seem never to become quite sated after each homecoming.

He’s always so gentle at first, reluctant to rush, afraid to bruise, afraid to hurt, even though I can feel the impatience in him, the need to possess, to claim and be claimed in return. It takes patience, coaxing and skill to show him that it’s okay to let go, that I won’t break, that he won’t hurt me, but I’ve acquired both in the past years of living together.

So we alternate between frenzied need and languid lovemaking, our own special homecoming party.

It was already dark when we emerged from the shower, pleasantly exhausted and starving. He fed me, because he likes to take care of me and while he’s brushing his teeth (because God forbid they might rot in the next couple of hours), I attempt to get back into Pony’s good graces.

The pooch is sulking, feeling neglected, refusing to even look at me as I put his food and water down in front of him. It’s always the same; whenever Logan comes home, we get lost in each other, not paying enough attention to Pony. He’ll get over it in the morning and all will be forgotten.

I shake my head at him simply huffing and turning over, then glance toward Logan’s bag.

I know I shouldn’t, the man’s entitled to his privacy—I know I’d bite his head off, if he tried this stunt with me—but it’s his fault, really, for leaving it _there_, beckoning to be investigated. And it’s his fault for trying to brush off the angry-looking bruise on his shoulder, obviously the result of a bullet meeting body armor, with a _Mission Impossible_ joke.

He was _shot_ and he’s acting like it was no big deal. If he’d had no body armor...I shudder just thinking about it.

And just like that, I’ve come from simply looking at his bag to rummaging through it. I have no idea what I’m hoping to find, he’s far from stupid, I just need to keep my hands and mind occupied with something that isn’t him getting shot or killed while I twiddle my thumbs at home. Waiting.

“You really shouldn’t be digging through the bag of a Naval Intelligence Officer,” he says from behind me making me shudder.

Having a Naval aviator boyfriend was stressful enough, having one in Intelligence was even worse. Because _I_ wasn’t stupid either. The profession might look innocuous on paper, but you know what they say about too-good-to-be-true. It is literally too good to be true.

Lieutenant Commander Logan Echolls isn’t just a Naval Intelligence Officer these days, he’s a SEAL trident bearing one, so yeah, his job description doesn’t sound harmless. And it certainly doesn’t involve desk duty, unless he works in an office where people get shot at.

_Okay, Veronica, stop thinking about him getting shot, you’re just going to drive yourself into a frenzy. He’s trained, he knows what he’s doing, he was wearing body armor...But what if they aimed at his head?_

So, instead of freaking out like I secretly want to, I go for glib, “That's what you say you are. I'm still thinking you’re an international playboy breaking hearts in exotic lands.”

“Sounds like you should lock me down.”

I’m thankful he’s back in the bathroom or he might ask me what the full-body shudder was about. Because he’s just returning the glibness. It’s what we do. It’s our _thing_. There’s no need to look for a deeper meaning. Still, I can’t help myself. “Be careful. Some girls might think you're proposing marriage.” _Shut up, Veronica. Just shut the fuck up._ “Or, in words you can understand, an Echolls Ultimatum.”

Is it too late to get a shovel and go bury myself in the middle of the beach?

“No, you had it the first time—marriage. I just forgot what it was called.” His voice is deceptively cheerful. “Let’s get married!”

Is he serious? Do I want him to be? More than five years of cohabitation, yet we never discussed marriage. We both come from broken homes, we’ve both seen our fair share of crappy marriages end in even crappier divorces, he’s been on some of the cheating-documenting stakeouts with me.

And yet, thinking about marriage and Logan in the same sentence doesn’t bring the usual wave of revulsion and disdain. _Oh, God_.

Flippant is my go-to response I fall back on whenever I don’t want to examine the subject too closely. So I snort and reply, “Okay, weirdo, let’s get married.”

“I’m serious,” is his response from the bowels of the bathroom.

It isn’t that large and he has a limited amount of teeth, so what is he still doing in there?

My hands full of chargers (how many does a person need, anyway?), I roll my eyes. Now I know he’s not being serious. “If you were serious, you’d be in the same room as your intended. And there’d be a ring involved.” That should shut him up. “Or so I’m told.”

I hear him move behind me and his words, “How many pockets have you searched?” elicit a shiver down my spine.

I turn, trying to read something, _anything_ from his features, but when he wants to, he has one hell of a poker face.

He looks at the bag, then back at me. “The pocket on the right.”

Heart in throat and hands shaking, I reach into the pocket in question, feeling him crouch behind me. My fingers close around a velvety object (a ring box?) and I swallow convulsively, pull it out and hand it to him as if it’s hot coal. “Logan?”

My voice comes out in a vulnerable whisper, but I’m not ashamed of it. I would’ve been just a couple of years ago, but I’ve changed. I’ve grown and matured alongside this man and although I’ve always presented a brave, not-giving-a-fuck facade to the world, I can be vulnerable when I’m with him. He won’t think less of me, he won’t ridicule. He’ll just love me and expect the same in return.

Logan drops a soft kiss onto my shoulder, then stand and circles the bag, dropping onto his knee in front of me.

_This is really happening, right? I’m not dreaming. But...What brought this on?_

He opens the box and I’m sure I’m supposed to look at the ring, but I can’t tear my eyes off his face. Doubts and fears war with longing and determination in his eyes and it’s all I can do not to launch myself at him and hug him. But I must’ve gone numb in between finding the box and him taking my hand, because I cannot seem to move.

His throat works as he brushes his thumb over my knuckles. “Veronica...I know it’s sudden and we haven’t really discussed it.” He shakes his head. “No, that’s not it.”

I make a sound, something between a sob and a chuckle and he looks at me, wrinkling his nose.

“Laugh it up, missy. It’s not every day a man proposes, you know.” He clears his throat, shakes his head, inhales deeply. “Veronica, I love you. I can’t remember a time I didn’t.”

There he goes, still wearing his heart on his sleeve.

“I want to spend the rest of my life with you, loving you, laughing with you, fighting with you, making up with you.”

I roll my eyes. It’s either that or full on flood of tears.

“You’re my best friend, my lover, my soulmate. Will you be my family? Will you marry me?”

Another eye roll accompanied by a flippant, “Yeah, I guess,” would be a good response, something along the lines of badass PI Veronica Mars, but deep down, I’m just a girl. A girl head-over-heels in love with the boy kneeling in front of her, handing his heart into her hands all over again. A girl in touch with her feelings, a girl seeing a freaking therapist to work hard on her intimacy and trust issues.

So my response is all girl. Or at least I think it is.

Fighting back tears, I throw myself at him, scrambling into his arms—because I can, because it’s him!—burying my face against his shoulder. He didn’t expect it, because he flails for a moment before ending sprawled on the floor with me still clinging to him.

Pony takes this as an olive branch that wasn’t meant to be, decides to forgive his two humans and declares it’s play time. He’s trying very hard to wedge his snout between my face and Logan’s neck, slobbering all over and whining.

“Down, boy.” Logan tries to push him away, but the pooch won’t be deterred. He’s half on the floor, half on top of us, tail wagging, now softly barking as if wanting to know why I’m crying. “Pony,” Logan snaps and all action seizes. “Down.”

With one last whine, Pony scrambles off, but parks his butt close enough to jump back into the fray if needed.

“Well.” One hand on my lower back and the other buried in my hair, Logan sighs. “This isn’t the response I envisioned.”

Affronted, I lift my head to look at him. “Oh yeah, and what did you envision?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He scratches at his ear. “I thought you’d stop me before I even asked. That you’d shove both our parents’ marriages in my face and then bolted.”

At a different time I might’ve done exactly that. With a different man I would’ve done exactly that. But this is now and this is Logan.

“If you thought I’d say no, why even ask?”

His eyes hold mine. “Because I love you, because I’m yours and you’re mine and I want to make it official.” He sighs. “And you still haven’t given me your answer.”

I grin down at him. “Just so there are no misunderstandings later, yes, I’ll marry you.” I lower my head to seal the promise with a kiss, my heart warming at seeing the happiness in his eyes, whispering, “What took you so long?” just before our mouths meet.

But he doesn’t let me linger long, breaking the kiss and pushing me away to look at me.

“What took me so long?”

I shrug. “Yeah. I mean we’ve been living together for more than five years, we have a joint account—”

“Yet you still won’t touch all the money in it,” he interrupts.

“Semantics.” Because it’s his trust fund, his money. If he’s not using it, why should I?

“_Our_ money,” he says as if he’s reading my mind. Which maybe he is, God knows what they teach them in SEAL school. “Which you won’t touch.”

“Anyway,” I quickly inject, “as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted. We’ve been cohabiting rather nicely, hiccups here and there not included because, let’s face it, it’s us, we have a joint account, the lease is in both our names, we share costs, and we have a dog. Marriage is the logical next step.”

And knowing what we know, having experienced what we’d experienced, I know we can make it work. We’re stubborn, Logan and I, and once we set to do something, we do it. And then perfect it.

He looks at me strangely. “Who are you and what have you done to my woman?”

“I’m serious, Logan.”

He places his palm on my forehead. “You’re not running a fever. Are you sick?”

“No.” I laugh and push his hand away. “Stop it and give me that ring already.”

Arms around me, he sits up without dislodging me from his lap, takes my left hand, kisses my palm reverently, but before he slides the rather exquisite looking ring—but what do I know about jewelry?—on my finger, he pauses. “Are you sure?”

I nod. “Yes.”

The slide of the ring against my skin should feel rather final, like this is the last stop before hell, but it doesn’t. It feels right. _Everything_ about this moment feels right.

My hair is still damp, I’m not wearing my bra, he’s shirtless, bruised and his hair is sticking up, we’re in the middle of our tiny living room in our tiny rental in the middle of the night with my half-eaten dinner on the couch behind us, and our dog staring unblinkingly at us.

It might be as unromantic as it could possibly be, but this is my perfect.


	3. Fear

There is so much blood. I’m kneeling in a pool of it, feeling it slowly congeal on my fingers where I’m still desperately pressing against the gaping wound in his chest, trying to stem the flow that is no longer there.

The ring he gave me when he proposed is no longer glistening gold, the diamond is coated in my husband’s dried blood.

Yet I’m still pressing down onto his no-longer moving chest, looking into his sightless eyes, screaming his name over and over again.

“Logan!”

I’m being shaken as I desperately cling to the dream, wanting to save him, calling to him.

“Wake up, Veronica. God damn it, wake up!”

I finally relinquish the dreamscape realizing it’s Logan that’s shaking me, Logan’s voice ordering me to wake up, while Pony barks like crazy.

My eyes slowly adjusting to the dimness of the bedroom, I meet Logan’s gaze. I press my palms against his naked chest—I need to touch him—when panic once again seizes my throat, reality and remnants of the nightmare merging together.

“God, Logan, you’re bleeding!” I scream, snapping into a sitting position, frantically searching for wounds. “You’re bleeding!”

He grabs my wrists, giving me a slight shake. “It’s just water. I was in the shower when you started screaming. I’m fine. Or I will be, when you calm down.”

I can’t seem to draw a normal breath, feeling my lungs seize and he curses under his breath, pushing my head down between my knees.

“Breathe, damn you,” he snarls. “Breathe. Focus on my voice and _breathe_.”

He guides me through it, his voice a calming influence in my currently-chaotic world, until I’m able to lift my head, lean it against his damp chest and listen to his heartbeat. It’s still fast, but steady and sure. _Alive._

“Better?” he murmurs and I nod slightly. “Okay, I need to turn off the shower.”

I quickly clutch at him, unable and unwilling to let go, the dream is still too vivid in my mind’s eye.

“I’ll be right back,” he whispers, kissing the crown of my head, but I simply cannot let go.

Compromising, he tucks my legs around his waist, lifts me against his chest, and carries me with him to the bathroom, where he shuts off the shower and forgoes toweling off since I’m clinging to him like a determined monkey.

Back in our bedroom, he drops onto his back on the bed with a grunt, while I’m still clinging, fused to him, face buried against his neck.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks softly.

_No._ “Why were you in the shower?” I mumble against his damp skin.

There’s a pause, he’s displeased with my avoidance. “I tend to sweat when I run.”

I frown. He went for a run without me?

“I didn’t want to wake you.” He tugs at a strand of my hair in hopes of getting me to look at him. Fat chance, no matter how yummy he looks. “We’re having dinner at Wallace’s tonight, remember? I thought you’d appreciate a longer beauty sleep.”

“What time is it?”

“Almost six.”

His earlier words finally register, and I lift my head to glare at him. “Are you telling me I’m ugly?”

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, his eyes crinkling at their corners as he smiles at me. But instead of making me melt, the smile puts me on guard.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he repeats.

“No.” I know it’s not healthy to avoid whatever’s brewing inside me, and I know I’m acting mulish and childish, but I simply cannot bring myself to tell him about the dreams. First, he’d feel guilty, and second...I fear that uttering words would make the dreams somehow more real.

He sighs, his eyes searching mine, and what he sees in them disappoints him. 

I hate disappointing him, I hate hurting him, I hate making him feel like I don’t trust him, but...

“Sometimes I have nightmares of you dying,” he says, interrupting my bleak thoughts.

I scramble up, straddling his hips, placing my hands on his chest. He has my complete attention.

“Never when I’m at home, when you’re in my arms. But on deployments...” His hands on my thighs, he sighs, looking everywhere but at me. “When I’m not here to protect you, to keep you safe. I dream of you dying when I’m helpless to prevent it.”

“I’ll never leave you, Logan.” _Not if I can help it._ I run my fingers up and down the sides of his neck. Calming him? Calming myself? Both? I don’t know, I just need the contact. “I’m careful, I promise. I have my gun and my tazer, I take Pony with me whenever I can, and you taught him well.” I lean back down until out foreheads are touching. “And you taught _me_ well. I might not be able to kick _your_ ass yet, but I can hold my own with the occasional common lowlife.”

“I know,” he whispers, his gaze finally meeting mine. “I know, but you know fears aren’t rational.”

And everyone he’s loved had died. Left him forever.

I touch my nose to his, conducting a fevered inner debate whether to tell him. What to tell him, how to tell him, how much to tell him, whether tell him at all.

It’s a moot point after he’s shared his fear with me, really. Not that it comes as a surprise, this revelation of his. He’s always been protective of those he considers his, sometimes overly so. But I see the relief in his eyes, even over the sometimes crappy Skype connection, when he sees me breathing and bruise free. I feel the tension slowly leave him when he holds me for the first time as he returns home after a deployment. I know he had the windows replaced with bullet-proof, blast-resistant glass and installed the state-of-the-art, expertly hidden, security system himself the week after we moved in, while telling me the apartment needed to be fumigated.

He’s protecting me the best he can when he’s not here and worries until he comes back...

“I dream of you dying,” I say simply.

Logan cocks his head, his gaze keeping mine prisoner, as he softly brushes the pads of his fingers up and down my spine. Calming me? Calming himself? Grounding us, connecting us.

“Often?”

“It comes and goes. It happened a lot at the beginning.”

“Veronica.”

It’s a pained moan, but I’m on a roll.

“I dreamed of you coming home in a box or not coming home at all. I dreamed of being at your funeral, listening to Taps, receiving the flag, but I’m never with you when you go...Until recently. I don’t remember happening before, but it did last night.”

He flinches beneath me as guilt creeps into his eyes. It happened when he wasn’t here to wake me, to comfort me.

“Pony woke me,” I murmur, feeling tears burn at the back of my eyes. “He slept beside me.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” he whispers, wanting to spare me the tears, but I’ve come too far.

“You died in an explosion, on the street outside. It was a bomb I missed, it was my fault. And tonight you got shot because of me.” My throat closes up.

He scoffs, but there’s concern in his eyes. “Please, don’t you know I’m engaged to a brilliantly intelligent woman? She wouldn’t miss a bomb and she’d never get me shot. Don’t sell yourself short.”

He’s trying to make me smile, to make me feel better, but all I can feel is a fist tightening around my throat, my heart. “There was so much blood—” I choke.

He rears up, pulls me to him, tucks my head under his chin, and hugs me. Tightly. “It’s okay,” he whispers. “It was just a dream. I’m here, I’m fine.”

I nod. “I know, but as you so eloquently put before, fears aren’t rational. I know you’re trained, I know you can take care of yourself, but...”

He cups my cheeks, forcing me back, so our eyes meet. His gaze is anguished. “Veronica...”

“No!” I grab his wrists. “That’s why I didn’t want to tell you in the first place. I don’t want you to feel guilty, I don’t want you to think you have to leave the Navy because of this, because I’m being such a _girl_. I know what it means to you. They saved you, they gave you purpose, they kept you save for me until I came back, they keep you safe now. I’m just worried about you, just like you’re worried about me.”

“I love you,” he murmurs. “Sometimes to distraction. It comes with the territory.”

“I love you, too, you know,” I whisper.

“I know,” he replies with a small smile.

“So...” I pull back a little, circling his neck with my arms. “I’m sure this should conclude the morbid, gloomy part of this morning’s program.”

There are no ready solutions for the fears and anxieties, save for moving into a cave away from civilization and live off the bounty of Mother Nature joined at the hip, and we’re both aware of it. He won’t leave the Navy, besides, I won’t let him, and I’ll keep sticking my nose into things that aren’t my business, while he’ll help me as much as he can when he’s at home. Anything could happen to one of us, heck, we could be hit by a car tomorrow, the trick is navigating the anxiety and not let fear rule you, to live life fully day by day, enjoying our time together to the fullest, enjoy what life has to offer and hope for the best.

I wiggle suggestively and grin at his body’s immediate response. “Want to move to the fun part?”

He swallows, his eyes dark pools of desire and need, fears and anxiety pushed back, but not forgotten. “I need to be at the base at ten.”

I roll my eyes. “Of course, you do, but until you have to leave...”

He flips me onto my back and rolls on top of me. “I can always use some more exercise.”

But you know how it is with fears. All it takes is a second for them to rear their shitty little heads.

After a congratulatory lunch with Dad and a promise for the three of us to get together for dinner one of these nights, because _“It’s not everyday number one daughter gets engaged”_, and still slightly pissed at him for brushing off his health concerns and not telling me the entire truth, when I know the entire truth (thanks, Mac, and your uncanny ability to seek out the gray area on the ethical compass), but _he_ doesn’t know that I know, I’m in the process of mounting spy cameras at Hu’s supermarket. It’s one of the pro-bono jobs we can afford to do thanks to the Karsyn’s of the world, their fuckers of ex-husbands and their easily earned money, so I’m feeling pretty good about my life at the moment. And it’s in this moment of perfect contentedness with the world as a whole that the faint boom of an explosion causes me to immediately spit out my screwdriver, abandon the ladder, and go for my phone.

I’m about to press 2 on my speed dial, when rational thought seeps in.

_The explosion sounded close, it was probably a propane tank, it’s been rather hot lately. And he’s still at the base, he texted earlier that he might be late for dinner at Wallace and Shae’s. Forget about the fucking dream. Dreams aren’t prophetic, don’t mix them with reality._

A couple of deep breaths later, I’m back on the ladder, setting the camera into place with shaking hands.

_You can do this, Veronica, stop panicking. You can’t call him just for an update, don’t be a clingy mess and whatever you do, _don’t _have a freaking meltdown in the middle of a job._

Giving up on the cameras, I can’t do shit since I’m not focused on the task at hand, I reach for my phone just as it trills.

The screen is filled with the closeup of a sleepy Logan I took one morning a couple of months ago, because he looked so damn adorable all rumpled and slightly grumpy.

“I was just thinking—” I start, a smile in my voice, because if he’s calling, he’s more than alright, but he doesn’t let me finish.

_“Are you okay?”_ His voice is all weird and shaky, the tone urgent.

“Yeah, what’s up?”

His exhale is loud and relieved. _“There’s been an explosion at the Sea Sprite,”_ he says softly. _“The news just hit, I thought—”_

That I was in the vicinity. My reaction exactly. “I’m at the other end of the boardwalk, mounting cameras at Hu’s. Was it a propane tank?”

_“They’re saying it was a bomb.”_

_Shit._ I don’t believe in premonitions, but a frisson of dread skitters down my spine.


	4. Calm Before the Storm

In the end, Logan makes it home on time. As soon as he walks through the door, he pulls me into his arms, buries his face against my neck, and breathes me in, deeply, until I feel him relax. Since I’m pretty much doing the same, only with less force, I’m not complaining.

Then we take a shower together, because we’re all about helping the environment. California might be out of its six-year-long drought period, but it never hurts to be frugal in conserving water.

So we end up being late to Wallace’s anyway, because we just so enjoy our water-conserving showers together.

We’re both grinning, and probably glowing in our joined post-coital bliss, when he tightens the strap of my helmet under my chin, kisses my nose, and straddles his motorcycle.

“Hop on, hot stuff,” he says with a wink. “Because I feel the need...”

I huff. Of course, he always rolled his eyes when I made _Top Gun_ references in the past, but now that he’s changed careers and is no longer hurtling through the air at multiple-Mach speeds, he’s all for it. At least he’s being more responsible than Tom Cruise had been in the movie and wears a crash helmet instead of aviator sunglasses. And I’m pretty sure he doesn’t ride around the base shaking his fist at fighter planes.

“The need for speed,” he finishes.

I merely shake my head and climb on behind him. He might claim feeling the need for speed, but, being the responsible citizen he’s been for more than a decade now, he always keeps it under the limit. Or maybe he only does when I’m with him, because, according to him, I’m _his precious_ (yet another movie reference that makes me gag, especially when he says it in his uncannily accurate Golum voice).

“Hold on tight,” he warns when I apparently don’t clutch at him tight enough for his liking. “We wouldn’t want to lose you along the way, now, would we?”

I bump my fist against the back of his helmet, feel his abs contract as he chuckles, and then we’re off, in a near-silent whir of his electric bike.

As I said, we’re all about helping the environment.

In front of Wallace’s house, having placed our helmets on the seat, he pulls me into his arms, the intent lighting up his eyes. I sigh softly and go readily. We might be late, but he’s recently returned from deployment, I’m sure Wallace and Shae will understand.

Our mouths are only a breath apart, when my phone rings.

He touches his forehead to mine with a slightly frustrated sigh, frowning when I show him the caller ID.

“Your dad can be a real cockblocker sometimes,” he mutters, chuckling as I slap his shoulder. “Take it, I’ll be inside, getting reacquainted with my godson.”

I watch him skip up the few stairs to the door that opens before he has a chance to ring the bell. He and Wallace do the thumb-clasping handshake, finishing it off with a male half-hug with plenty of back-slapping. Wallace nods toward me, but Logan simply shakes his head and pushes him back inside the house as I answer the phone.

“Yeah?”

He delves right in; I texted him earlier, before Logan came home, to keep me up to speed. _“They’re saying four dead.”_

Jesus, four?!

_“I can’t believe there’s not more. That place is mobbed this time of year. The motel owner died. Plus a Mexican national going to school at Cal Tech, a law school student, and the fiancée of Alex Maloof.”_ There’s a pause as he, no doubt, skims through the article. _“Younger brother of Congressman Daniel Maloof.”_

There’s immediate relief that I don’t know any of the four victims, followed by a stab of guilt for the morbid thought. “What about the bomb? Where was it planted, was it on timer? Do they speculate terrorism, given the connection to the Congressman, was it racially motivated because of the Mexican kid...” I feel more than hear Wallace running out of patience and coming to fetch me. “You know what, Dad? I gotta go.” I turn to my best friend and smile. “The host is tapping his watch at me. Talk to you tomorrow.”

_“Love you.”_

I smile. Of course, he does. “Love you, too. Good night.”

Wallace merely spreads his arms. “Come here, you.”

I pretend not to understand the stupid grin spreading on his face or the offered embrace. Of course, Logan tattled the moment he stepped into the house. He probably told the entire base the good news, I half expected a marching band greeting me when I returned from Hu’s. “What’s up?” I ask, dong the dumb-as-a-post blonde bimbo impression.

He grabs me and pulls me into one of his signature bear hugs. “You two crazy kids are making it official, I can finally stash my shotgun.”

I laugh, enjoying the comfort, the feeling of _home_, of the hug. “That’s my Dad’s line.” I pull out of his embrace and frown. “Actually, that _was_ exactly my Dad’s line when I told him. Did you two compare notes or something?”

Wallace grins and tugs me toward the house. “Nah, we did place a bet, though.”

I gasp in mock outrage. “You two bet on my love life?”

“Just the engagement part. And not just us. We all pitched in. Shae, Mac, Dick, Weev, and that Logan’s Navy buddy, Ricks.”

The ones who were confident that even if we found out, we wouldn’t kill them. Much. “So, who won?”

“Mac,” Wallace growls.

Of course she did.

“She was dead on.” Wallace rolls his eyes, opens the door and, a true gentleman to the core, motions for me to precede him. “She actually made a program to calculate it to the hour, can you imagine?”

Actually, I can.

“And then she called, from her vacation, might I add, to gloat.”

“Mac doesn’t—”

The sight in Wallace’s living room stops me short. Logan is playing with little Noah Fennel. Logan is sitting on Wallace’s couch with an adorable baby in his arms, emitting adorable baby-appropriate noises. All possible words and thoughts flee, as my hormones stand to attention, my ovaries explode (metaphorically, of course), and my inner petulant spoiled child exclaims _I want one__!_

“This is a respectable house, V,” Wallace murmurs beside me. “You might want to keep it in your pants until you two get home.”

I sense him walk into the living room, but I cannot seem to move, my eyes glued to Logan with a _baby in his arms_. What would he look like with _our_ baby in his arms? Hot. Sexy. Adorable. Loving. A keeper.

“Aw, hell, no,” I mutter under my breath, shaking my head to dislodge the mental image. We just became engaged. It took him five years to merely propose, I might want to wait a bit before springing the whole baby-making thing on him. He’d probably go into full-on panic mode at the mention, frightened to the bone of being a bad father with the example he was given. But I know he’d make a wonderful dad, _despite_ and _because_ of the example he’d been given. He’d be the exact opposite of Aaron Echolls in every single way. He’d love and cherish his children (and there I go, already thinking in plural), guide them in life, protect them, keep them safe.

_You will make a wonderful father, baby._

When I finally get my legs to move, Noah is the first one to see me, flashing me his endearing toothless grin. Then Logan turns toward me, a corner of his mouth kicked up in his signature lopsided smile and my heart goes pitter-pat, while my ovaries do their _kaboom_ thing again. I must be ovulating. I’m always hornier when I’m ovulating.

Who am I kidding? I get turned on with him simply breathing.

“Hey, sweetie.” He places a soft kiss on Noah’s temple and I shiver. “You ever seen one of these before? It’s called...” Another soft kiss. “What do you call it?”

Standing behind the couch, Wallace shakes his head. I don’t know if it’s because of Logan’s antics or the sexual heat coming off me in waves, and I don’t really care. “I call him Noah,” he explains.

Logan bounces the kid in question. “No.”

Wallace’s eyebrow climbs. “No?”

Logan shakes his head, staring off into the distance as if deep in thought.

What a drama queen.

“No, you call it something else.”

Wallace glances at me and rolls his eyes. “A baby?”

As if a light-bulb was turned on, Logan immediately perks up. “That’s it.” He looks at me and there’s no mistaking the glint in his eyes. Maybe the full-on panic mode would be avoided if mutual babies would be brought up. “It’s a baby, Veronica.”

_Lord, have mercy. _I make a noncommittal sound, pretending to glance at my phone. Anything, to prevent me from jumping his bones on Wallace’s couch. That would guarantee we’d never again be invited to dinner and I happen to like Shae’s cooking.

“It’s what everyone’s goin’ on about.” He keeps bouncing Noah slightly on his knee.

“Yeah, yeah.” I put the phone on vibrate, stash it into my bag, and, hormones firmly under control—I hope—drop onto the couch beside him, reaching my hands toward Noah, who’s already mirroring my actions, babbling happily. “Give me my nephew, before you give him motion sickness.”

Logan relinquishes Noah with a grin and I settle the tyke in my lap. “Hey, there,” I croon. “Don’t you look handsome tonight, little Noah.”

“Of course, he does,” Wallace concurs. “He’s wearing an outfit Auntie Veronica bought him.”

I pretend to inspect the garment, then grin at Wallace. “But of course. I thought it looked familiar. I have splendid taste in baby clothes, don’t I?”

“And in fiances,” Logan interjects, leaning close and kissing my cheek.

“That’s right.” I bat my lashes at him. “You ain’t that shabby, either.”

Wallace chuckles, says he’s going to fetch his wife, and leaves Noah and me giggling at the faces Logan makes and communicate in baby-langs. Which, if I may be so bold, I’m quite well-versed in.

After Shae’s delicious dinner—the woman somehow finds the time in her busy schedule of being a mom, wife and a successful attorney to cook amazing meals for family and friends on a regular basis—Logan and Wallace are laughing their asses off in the living room playing _Cards Against Humanity_, as I help with the clean-up, when little Noah Fennel, after having been put to sleep over two hours ago, comes crawling into the kitchen, babbling excitedly along the way.

“What are you doing here?” Shae asks as she scoops him up in her arms. “You, young man, should be asleep by now. Wallace?!”

A few seconds later, the man in question, followed closely by Logan, pops into the kitchen. Seeing his son in his mother’s arms, Wallace frowns. “He got out again?” At Logan’s surprised look, he explains, “I don’t know what happened, but all of a sudden, our son’s become an escape artist.”

Shae nods, soothingly rubbing her thumb between Noah’s brows. “We put him to bed and he somehow gets out of it. No matter what we do, he just get’s out.”

“We even changed the crib, thinking it was defective,” Wallace continues, “but he still gets out. He’s too small to climb out on his own, I don’t know how he does it.”

Logan looks at me, just looks at me, and I know he knows. Not suspects, _knows_. “Hmmm.” He scratches at the back of his neck, a small smile playing on his lips, and I want to punch him. “It sure is a conundrum, this. Or maybe he’s just a genius thanks to his pedigree. Or a modern-day Houdini in the making. What do you think, Sugarpuss?”

I glare at him and he winks back, his lips slightly pursed as if to send me a kiss.

_Guess what, buddy, the _only_ thing you can kiss __from now on__ is my ass._

And I know what I’ll be doing on my next impromptu babysitting session in the Fennel house. Using my knowledge in baby-langs to convey to young Mr Noah Fennel that the trick I taught him for how to get out of his crib was meant to be used in emergencies only.


	5. Beginning of the End

Having one’s office ‘invaded’ by a sitting Congressman and his stuck-up (or at least that’s how she seems) mother, would throw a lesser person off their stride. Having said sitting Congressman and his stuck-up (or at least that’s how she seems) mother wanting to hire the services of a small, family-operated PI business, that specializes mostly in catching cuckolders _in flagrante_ (oh, the stories I could tell) and an occasional bail jumper, but hasn’t worked a ‘serious’ case in a while, to find the Sea Sprite bomber, when not even the Powers That Be know if it was random, racially motivated or an act of domestic or foreign terrorism, _should_ throw a PI off their stride.

But, see, we Marses are made of sterner stuff than that, so here we all are, the matriarch of one family and the patriarch of another and their offspring, in Dad’s office, feeling our way as we go.

“That’s all I want, Mr. Mars,” Daniel Maloof says, looking slightly imploringly at Dad, his hands clasped between his legs; a pose, I’m half expecting Momsy to scold him for. Come to think of it, I’m surprised she hasn’t scolded me for leaning my butt on Dad’s desk instead of sitting ‘like a proper lady should’. “Find out who planted that bomb. Bring me the information. I did some checking. You’re well respected here.”

Whom exactly did the good Congressman talk to? And how old was the information he received?

Dad merely smiles and you have to know him to read the mix of disbelief, cynicism and slight derision in that rather bland-looking smile. “By some. You realize we won’t have access to the same forensic evidence as the police department.” I glare at him, and he quickly corrects, “Th-they won’t share that with us.”

“Maybe they’ll solve it,” Maloof offers with a deprecating grin. “Although I have my doubts.” He pauses, then, “This is a problem for my family, Mr. Mars.” His eyes meet mine. “We’re choosing to throw money at it.”

I bet Momsy and sonny Maloof see dollar signs in my eyes, thinking Dad and I can be bought with enough money. Here’s where they’re wrong, like most people. If they see dollar signs it’s because their money will not only cover the expenses on this case, but others cases as well, when we help people that cannot afford to throw their money at anyone, since they barely have some to spend on themselves. And we cannot be bought. No money in the world can do that.

“Are you interested?” Maloof asks and I look at Dad from the corner of my eye, making a good effort of smiling without conveying my distaste.

“Of course,” Dad agrees, not too eager and not too dismissive. Just the right response. And then dives right in. “Is there a reason to suspect that your brother was the target?”

Maloof makes a hand shrug. “Only in the broader sense.”

Having remained silent throughout the entire exchange, not counting the initial greeting and the judgmental arching of an elegantly plucked brow that spoke volumes, and probably bored with just sitting there making disapproving faces, Momsy Maloof chooses that moment to speak.

“Excuse me,” she addresses me. “I would like some tea.”

Is that a condescending tone I’m detecting or is my, I wouldn’t call it dislike, at least not yet, but something along those line, coloring my perception? She’s certainly proving to be one of those matriarchs who think the only women capable of doing anything efficient and noteworthy besides turning oxygen into carbon dioxide are them and no one else. She probably thinks I’m Dad’s secretary or a pity job, since I’m blonde and, hence, probably not all that bright.

Maloof says something in Arabic, which Logan would probably understand, but I’m too lazy to take him up on his offer to even teach me the basics.

“Mrs. Maloof.” There’s a slight bite in Dad’s voice, so it’s not just me. “My daughter is—”

“More than happy to get you some tea,” I quickly interject. It wouldn’t do to alienate the matriarch who obviously wears pants in this tableau. I smile, all teeth, no warmth. “I hope English Breakfast is your thing.”

_Even if it isn’t, it’s the only tea we have, so you’ll just have to suck it up. Think of England, or something._

Dad clears his throat—he’s uncannily good when it comes to reading my mind—and turns his eyes back to Maloof. The male one. “But as for a specific reason,” then he looks at Momsy, “someone might want your son harmed?”

Maloof sighs, starts listing, “We’re wealthy, I’m an Arab-American congressman...” The list isn’t that long. “Uh, I suppose there’s the matter of your rate?”

“It’s 300 an hour plus a 5,000 retainer,” I quickly say, then flash a sheepish smile, since I’m still standing in the doorway and not even close to bringing Momsy Maloof her bloody tea.

“She does the books,” Dad explains, lying through his teeth.

Basic math is one thing, book-keeping is a different animal all together. An accountant recommended by one of Logan’s does our books. She’s our Mac the Second, armed with a pocket calculator and a spreadsheet (probably not, but what the hell do I know about what accountants use to make sense of all those numbers?), and probably the only reason we’re still afloat without an outside party (probably Logan, because he’d never let us go under, even if it meant constant money-related fights) providing capital.

I nod and grin. “And she’ll be right back with your tea, Mrs. Maloof. Would you like some as well, Congressman?”

Aren’t I just the darling?

That evening, after spending more than an hour on the beach, watching the sunset cuddled in Logan’s arms, while Pony ran in and out of the surf like possessed and is now all gunked-up and stinky and in dire need of a long wash, the three of us walk a little further down the boardwalk.

We didn’t discuss it, I never said a word—my man just _gets _me—but leash firmly in Logan’s hands, so Pony doesn’t get any ideas about spreading his pungent aroma on me or an innocent passerby, we find ourselves crossing the Sea Sprite parking lot.

If Neptune is the official West Coast capital of spring break, the Sea Sprite motel is its national monument. Or _was_, before someone blew it up.

The main U-shaped building, hosting the rooms with doorways facing the pool and, depending on the room, the beach as well, is still intact, but no lights are blazing, there are no drunk spring breakers spilling out of doors, no deafening music sounding from the patio and the rooms, and the motel sign is turned off.

The smell of smoke still hangs in the air currents, and I could swear I can see the wisps of it in the glare of the police floodlights shedding their stark light onto the charred skeleton that used to be the low-level annex housing the motel reception, making the shards of glass glisten and glow like stars in the sky.

The image of similarly glistening shards of glass, raining down on me, catching the light of the afternoon sun, superimposes itself in my mind’s eye, the last image from my dream the other night, and I reach for Logan’s hand. Seeking his warmth, the connection and the reassurance.

He squeezes briefly, his larger palm engulfing mine, before our fingers entwine.

He looks down at me. “You okay?”

Am I? Or is my mind sliding down a slippery slope until I won’t be able to distinguish between dreams and reality. Still, I nod feebly, then point to a lone figure observing the police proceedings with a clinical eye from behind the yellow tape.

We walk, hand-in-hand to where Dad stands, one of the few people on our side of the tape, that aren’t here for kicks, sensationalism, or Instagram pics.

“End of an era,” I say, and he slowly turns to look at us. “I’ve photographed some enthusiastic acts of adultery here.”

“Hey, honey.” He smiles and gives me a one-armed hug, complete with a head kiss. The smile turns into a grin as he extends his hand to Logan. “Logan, I heard you’re planning on making an honest woman out of my daughter.”

In a display of uncanny SEAL ability, Logan smoothly transfers Pony’s leash from his right hand to our joined grip (I can’t seem to let go of his hand, and I don’t really want to), and clasps Dad’s. “I believe it’s the other way around, Keith.”

As Dad chuckles, I beam up at Logan, then blink rapidly, momentarily blinded by a flash going off. “Look at all these reporters.”

Logan sighs, his adversity for reporters even greater than mine and Dad’s combined. “Congressman’s brother. The press will be all over this.”

He has first-hand experience at how that shit goes.

I nod toward a doughy man with a logo-ed ballcap, enthusiastically gesturing while talking to a uniform. “Who’s he?”

“Pizza guy,” Dad explains as the man in question tries to read the cop’s notes upside down. “He just left the office, when the bomb went off. Took some shrapnel in his back. He’s been all over the news.”

Dad’s tone screams ‘media whore’ and I lean toward agreeing. Some people would do a lot to get their shot at five minutes of fame, and if they don’t have to do anything more than take some stray shrapnel, you can be sure they’ll milk it for all they’re worth.

“And that?” Logan points toward a girl with long hair, slowly walking around the empty hull of the reception.

She tucks her hair behind her ears before bending down and picking something up. I wait for her to call to a cop, maybe for a cop to ask her what she’s doing, but she just slips whatever she’s picked up in her pocket and goes back to her search of the floor. She looks too young to be a cop, she’s not in any sort of gear...So what is she doing inside the secure perimeter without supervision and without anyone giving a shit about her being there?

“The owner’s daughter,” Dad supplies. “She was outside in her car when it happened.”

She’s obviously uninjured and has a slight reason to be where she is. Still, it seems weird, but what do I know, I’m just a PI after all.

“So,” Dad continues, “since you two, well, three...” He leans down to give Pony a scratch before I can warn him, so I simply offer him a wet-wipe dug out from the depths of my bag when he grimaces. “Since you were so kind to spare me the trek to your love-nest, I can now invite you to the celebratory dinner I mentioned yesterday.”

“Hmmm.” I exchange a look with Logan. We’re not really dressed for dinner, thanks to our cuddle on the beach, and there’s Pony in all his disheveled and smelly state.

Dad gives me a tender shoulder-shove. “Mama Leone’s has outside seating. I’m sure we can find a spot far enough from other patrons that Pony can accompany us.”

Logan lightly swings our joined hands. “I wouldn’t say no to _penne all’Amatriciana_.”

Dad nods enthusiastically, already drooling at the thought. “And _manicotti_.” He gives me another shoulder-shove, not so tender this time. “How about _pollo alla romana_? Meatball pizza? Come on, daughter of mine, you can have your choice of dessert. May I suggest _tiramisù_?” And he skips, literally skips, cane and all, down the street.

“There better be two desserts,” I mutter, just to be ornery, as Logan, Pony and I follow at a more leisurely pace. 

Logan leans close, his breath tickling my ear, as he whispers, “I may be persuaded to let you nibble on a _cannoli_ later.”

I flutter my lashes up at him coyly, already imagining the things I will do to him later. “You should know by now that my powers of persuasion are legendary.”

“I know, my love,” he murmurs with a wistful smile. “Believe me, I know.”

“You two stop flirting and get a move on!” Dad yells. How did he get down the street so fast anyway? “I’m hungry!”


	6. Hanging out with friends

There’s something weirdly fascinating about watching young Dick Casablancas begging for heroin and getting his throat cut for it. Granted, it’s on a movie screen, but before his undercover-cop character (who thought of that one?) got his blood so messily spilt, his performance could be categorized as true art emulating life.

Logan reaches over and takes my hand. His is cold and clammy. Turning to him, I notice he’s not watching the screen, his eyes, filled with a disconcerting mix of desperation and relief, are on our joined hands as he runs the pad of his thumb over my engagement ring.

And it suddenly hits me. Boy, I’m so stupidly blind sometimes. This scene could be triggering for someone with Logan’s history of substance abuse. He could’ve died all those years ago, just as the character on screen did. With less blood, but he could’ve died. Logan wouldn’t be here, if he’d succeeded in killing himself in his depression. He wouldn’t be here with me, holding my hand, feeling the engagement ring he’s put on my finger under his thumb. He would’ve died alone, would’ve probably been forgotten by now as if he’d never existed.

I blink hard to keep tears at bay at the thought of him being snuffed out of existence so easily, so callously, and clench at his hand. Not on my watch, I swear silently. _I won’t let you go, Logan. Not if I can help it. _Prophetic dreams and premonitions or not, I’ll protect him with my last breath.

Even from something as trivial as a movie scene.

I elbow Dick, who’s sitting on the other side of me, his eyes glued onto the screen, watching Josh Duhamel’s character screaming about cops.

He elbows me back as if to convey the message of letting him be.

I sigh and lean closer. “I’m getting Logan out of here,” I whisper.

_Now_ I have his attention. “But it’s my movie,” he whines softy. “I want you to see it.”

“Dick,” I growl. It’s only a minor role; his character dies in the first half of the flick, it’s not like he’s an A-list actor.

His eyes slide to the left and his entire demeanor changes. “That’s it, dude,” he says obnoxiously loud, jumps to his feet, almost climbs over me, and parks himself in front of Logan, blocking his (and everybody behind him) view of the screen. “We can go, the best part is over.” He grins. “And the second best part is just beginning. Part-ay! We can celebrate the two of you ruining a good thing by deciding to get hitched. That’s just sick, dude!”

He giggles maniacally, grabs Logan’s arm, and, with a look at me that speaks volumes, drags us out of the auditorium.

Just like that. One glimpse of Logan’s face and he knew what it was all about, having lived through this particular nightmare with his best friend, while I was miles away, trying to escape the mayhem I caused.

There are hidden depths to Dick, you just have to dig to find them. He might seem shallow and self-absorbed, but he’d do pretty much anything for the people in his close orbit. He doesn’t have many friends in the true sense of the world, most people who hang around him are 09er residue from our school days, 09er wannabes and groupies only interested in money, sex, and recreational drugs. And all that he has left of family, is his con of a father, recently released from prison and wanting to flip the town upside-down, and an absentee mother who doesn’t give a shit about her son.

No wonder, he needs his special chocolate brownies when the blues hit. But he has a support core around him now, I guess. There’s Logan, who’s been like a brother to him for more than half their lives and there’s me, his adoptive wicked step-sister (his words), because he failed in getting Logan to shake me (again, his words).

It didn’t happen overnight, God forbid. He has a good reason for not being able to fully forgive me, just as I cannot fully forgive him for being one of the catalysts for my rape. We don’t talk about that, of course, we never did, and until we do, full forgiveness will remain elusive. Yet, gradually, Dick and I got to a mutual understanding that we’re the two constants in Logan’s life and no matter what, he won’t shake either of us. And if we keep trying to get him to do that, the only one suffering is going to be him. Since we both love him and neither of us wants to make him suffer, we’ve buried the proverbial hatchet. That doesn’t mean we stopped trading barbs or insults, but it comes off more as good-natured banter between old acquaintances than weapon-rattling by two mortal enemies.

And with me becoming a permanent fixture in Dick’s life, courtesy of Logan, my friends have joined his orbit as well. Hence, the pool involving our engagement he participated in.

So now, the seemingly shallow idiot with hidden depths and rip currents has both a quasi-family and a couple of buddies that won’t take advantage of him.

_You’re welcome, Dick._

I smile gratefully at Logan, when he finally returns with our non-alcoholic beers. We’ve fully embraced teetotalism, staying away even from an occasional glass of wine or cocktail among friends. I might’ve dabbled at the beginning, but I never actually acquired the taste for alcohol—as you probably know, I have an aversion to being out of control of my mind and/or body, while Logan...Well, let me just refer you back to the aforementioned substance abuse for any explanation you might need.

Though, if I’ll have to listen to Dick recall which was the hardest scene to film for him one more time, I just might change my mind and go for the hard stuff.

“Okay, I think the hardest scene for me was when I was supposed to surf while trippin’ on heroin, ‘cause I had to think two things at the same time.”

I move my bottle to the side in order to make room for when I’ll start slamming my head against the table. It’s either that or knocking Dick out. Which also doesn’t sound like a bad idea.

“It’s a challenge,” Logan says with a nod, running his hand soothingly down my spine.

“You were amazing,” titters a young brunette who’s sidled up to Dick during one of the versions of his hardest scene soliloquy.

Dick grins like a kid at Christmas. “Yeah?”

The girl nods enthusiastically and if we were characters in a musical movie, I bet she’d burst into song and cheering moves, she’s so young. I frown at the image. She looks _too_ young.

Richard Casablancas Sr., also known as Big Dick, former resident of Chino, chooses that moment to finally approach his movie star son. “Well, that was somethin’, huh? Well done, superstar!” He slams his hand on Dick’s back. “Boy, they didn’t scrimp on the blood, huh?”

Apparently Dick’s character isn’t the only one who ends up gushing blood in the movie, then. Looks like we didn’t miss much by leaving early.

“Whoa.” Big Dick appraises the too young girl by the table, then notices me and Logan. “Oh, Logan, Veronica.” He grins. “Alright, when are you two crazy kids gonna make it legal?”

Dick snorts. “Great powers of observation, dad. Can’t you see the rock on Ronnie’s finger?”

“Oh, well, congratulations you two.”

“Thanks, sir,” Logan murmurs, while I just nod and take a sip of my beer (mmm, elderberry, yum), hoping he’d just go away.

Of course, he doesn’t take the cue. Quite the contrary, he points at the slender, middle-aged man who wouldn’t look out of place in a jazz club with his all-black attire and the pork pie hat perched on his bald head,standing beside him. “Veronica, Logan, meet my friend and associate, Clyde. We go back to,” he leans closer, pride and smugness coming off him in waves, “ya know, when I was on the inside.”

Being an ex-con is nothing to brag about, but that fact obviously eludes Big Dick. As does the reason he was on the inside in the first place. Rich, privileged assholes never acknowledge the little people they trample.

Logan shakes hands with Clyde and I do the same. “Hi.”

Big Dick points to the young, _too young_, girl hanging on Dick. “And who is this?”

Junior clearly has no idea. Neither do I, for that matter, although I’m pretty sure she mentioned her name.

She’s more than capable of introducing herself. “Malone.”

Did she say she was a Malone when she came to the table? No clue.

“Malone?” Big Dick also seems surprised at the name.

“Yeah,” Dick agrees. “Yeah, I was gonna say that.” He looks at me with the expression of someone who’s dodged the bullet, and bites into another one. “So, V, I gotta say, playing an undercover detective has really given me a deep appreciation for what you do.”

No, it didn’t. He told me that getting Logan off that last murder charge has given him a deep appreciation for me and what I do. Besides, I’m not an undercover detective. I’m not even law enforcement. So he’s making stupid small talk, while also conveying to someone, I don’t know if it is Clyde or young Malone, just what I do for a living.

Still, I can’t help but take the bait he so generously offered. “Hold multiple thoughts at the same time?”

He giggles softly, but there’s a ‘this is a worthy opponent’ light in his eyes. He _was_ baiting me.

“You know, Veronica here’s a legit PI.” There’s something akin to pride in his voice. “She’s working the Sea Sprite bombing.”

This isn’t for Malone’s benefit, it’s for Clyde’s. I glance over at Big Dick’s brother from another Chino, but he keeps a blank expression. And you know what they say about blank expressions. They’re masking something else.

“You wouldn’t think it by looking at her,” Dick goes on, moving against young Malone hanging onto his shoulder as if he wants to dislodge her, “but you know what they say about small packages.”

I can’t help this one either. “That you’ve got one?”

I take another sip of beer, to cover my wince, when Dick frowns as if mine was a low blow.

“What?” He finally manages to remove Malone from his shoulder, which I find odd, coupled with his previous movements. Isn’t she his type? I mean, she’s female, she’s breathing, and she’s ripe for the picking by Dick Casablancas, the movie star.

“Yeah, I feel weird for asking,” Logan interjects, breaking the tension, “but what does Big Dick’s right hand do?”

Break the tension and poke a little more. He got the same idea as I did. There’s something fishy about Clyde.

Blank expression still firmly in place, the guy doesn’t look ruffled _at all_, Clyde replies, “I’m just a glorified property manager.”

Logan and I share a quick look. Glorified property manager, my ass.

“Oh, the guy’s brilliant.” Of course, Big Dick has to expand the narrative, though it’s obvious Clyde would’ve preferred he stayed silent. “He does everything.”

And then Malone, obviously feeling left out with no Dick shoulder to hang on, pipes up, “I thought we were going to an after-party at DJ Khaled’s house.”

Dick’s face seems set in stone, but he manages a slight eye-roll. “No, babe,” though there’s no endearment in his voice, “the after-party party’s after this party.” He looks to the side, calls to a Tim to shoot him party deets, but it’s obvious there’s no Tim around and whoever Dick is pretending to call doesn’t know him. Still, he grabs his glass and disappears into the crowd.

Big Dick goes in search of another drink, leaving Logan and me alone with Clyde and Malone.

We toward one another, hoping to be left alone, since neither of us has any intention of making small talk, while Clyde slides toward Malone, leaning his forearm on the table.

“So, I can’t get over how much you look like my niece. You’re probably about the same age. When were you born?”

Logan and I wince simultaneously. What kind of question is that? Is he angling for a date, which is gross or—

“’98,” Malone responds.

As if. I look at Clyde, trying to determine what he’s about.

“Yeah, same as her. So, high school class of 20...15?”

I can literally see the girl’s inner calculator frizzing as she opens her mouth. “Yeah.”

Some basic rules of lying. Never choke, own it, bluff your ass off. She evidently never heard about any of those.

Clyde has, though. “Yeah.” He also knows math and can detect an underage person without checking the possible fake ID. He straightens from his slouch, and pins Malone with a hard stare. “I don’t know what kind of math they’re teaching you at your high school, but you should probably pay more attention. And you should probably go somewhere else...Maybe the prom?”

She slowly moves away, disappearing into the crowd.

I take another sip of my beer and meet Logan’s eyes. Well, that answered the question about what the interrogation was for. Clyde wasn’t angling for a date, he was trying to save Dick from possible statutory rape charges.

A corner of Logan’s mouth quirks.

He has a point. Dick’s been acting weird since Malone came to our table. The introduction of me and what I do, the trying to shake the girl’s grip from his shoulder, the disappearing act pretending to inquire about the details of a party. He probably knew there was something hinky, but, in true Dick fashion, decided to have someone else do the job of removing the girl from the premises without her making too much of a fuss.

Suddenly, the man in question magically reappears. “Oh, did Monroe leave already?” Like he hasn’t seen her go.

“Malone,” Clyde corrects, before melting into the crowd.

Dick shrugs. “Whatever.” Then slams his hands on the table. “Well, now that we’re finally alone, we can get back to celebrating. Your engagement and my stardom.” He grins. “And guess what, the drinks here are free!”


	7. Interesting new acquaintance

“I’ll run down this King Pagursky,” Dad says when we step out of the motel room.

I shudder, feeling like I need a shower or something with the way that Simon-or-whatever-his-name-was was checking me out, licking his lips suggestively as he took our business card. Yuck.

“Sound like nothing, though. It could be Gabriel suffered from the wrong-place-wrong-time syndrome.”

I shake my head. “Imagine getting blown to pieces because the Wi-Fi was down.” I shrug, fully into black-humor territory. “A service provider might want to pick up this practice. _Don’t complain about your shitty Internet connection or we’ll blow you up._ Quite a good incentive to shut up and take it, don’t you think?”

Dad rolls his eyes and tucks his notebook in his shoulder bag. “Off to Comrade Quacks. I can’t wait for you to meet the owner. Ready to get our ducks wet?”

“Absolutely,” I exclaim with an enthusiasm I don’t really feel—I’d rather much go home and cuddle on the couch with Pony and Logan (if he’s home from base, yet)—tugging his shoulder bag off, as he goes to the driver’s side. “More billable hours, more people like Hu that we can help. Plus,” I continue with a cheeky smile and a wink, “I really want to ingest a 24-ounce cocktail in under two second.”

Dad makes a moue. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

“Apparently it is, if you’re using a funnel.” I close the door, buckle in and jiggle my phone under his nose. “Maybe we’ll catch someone doing it. YouTube goes nuts for such videos. You can become an influencer.” I wiggle my eyebrows.

“Nah,” he scoffs, “I’m already one on Instagram, there’s no need for me to branch out.”

It’s only late afternoon, but Comrade Quacks is already full or reveling spring breakers in various stages of intoxication. I’m getting a headache just looking at them, listening to the beat of the music through the windows of Nicole Malloy’s office.

“Were we ever that young?”

Dad looks at me, his eyes sympathetic, but mouth too smart for his own good. “Speak for yourself. I’m down here every weekend, raisin’ roofs, makin’ mirth, honky-tonkin’.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Heavy on the honky.” My phone chimes with a text from Logan, so he’s home. Thank God. Then I read the tweet he sent me. From a Penn Epner person who obviously needs a hard beating. “Listen to this tweet from some rando. _Can Neptune law enforcement solve the pizza bombing case? Will Chief Langdon be another in a chain of clowns and scoundrels? Remember Mars 1? Fail. Lamb? Corrupt. Dumb. Mars 2? Evidence tampering. Lamb 2? Corrupt. Dumber._ Hashtag Sea Sprite Bombing.”

Dad looks at the screen and scoffs. “A pizza guy said that? About me?”

“Pizza guy?”

He nods. “Yeah, Penn Epner is the guy from last night in front of the Sea Sprite. He got shrapnel from the bomb.”

“Not enough shrapnel,” I mutter. Then louder, “Let’s pay him a visit. See if he calls you a clown to your face.” No one has that kind of balls. And if they do, I’ll break them.

Dad gives me a resigned look. “I’m an old guy with a cane, Veronica. He very well might.”

Not on my watch he won’t, but before I can say that aloud, a voice with a lilting British accent interrupts, “Hello, Mars family.”

“Hi,” we say in unison as I check out the new player in our case.

Nicole Malloy appears to be in her early thirties. She’s slightly taller than me and quite a looker with flawless skin, large, expressive brown eyes, dreadlocks and a nose ring. Her smile is open and engaging as she shakes my hand in introduction. No need to do that with Dad, as he’d already met her at that nutjob-or-something meeting while I was busy accepting Logan’s proposal and screwing his brains out. She leans her butt on her desk and grins. “You two are legends in this town.”

Dad and I exchange glances, not really knowing what to say. First Maloof, now Nicole. Who are these people talking to?

“Thanks for talking to us,” I tell her.

She shrugs. “Yeah, sure. I mean, I was curious as to why you wanted to talk to me about the Sea Sprite bombing.”

“Well.” I pull today’s paper out of my bag, conveniently folded at the right page showing the photos of the four victims of the bombing. “These people all died in the explosion. With the exception of this guy,” I point and she leans closer, “the motel owner, everyone else was in your bar the night before the bombing.”

Nicole takes the newspaper, studies the photos.

“Remember any of them?”

She makes a sound of agreement, then points at the first photo in the lineup. Jimmy Hatfield, the law student. “This piss wizard. Yep. I had to 86 him.” She sounds rather pleased about that. Not that I blame her. No one likes piss wizards.

“Why is that?” Apparently Dad doesn’t share my and Nicole’s opinion on piss wizardry.

Nicole straightens a little. “He was forcing a passed-out female’s head down into his lap.”

Dad goggles slightly, rolling onto the balls of his feet with an uncomfortable smile. “And that’s why you punched him?”

Nicole chuckles softly, then deadpans, “No. I punched him because I couldn’t find my Uzi.” She looks at me and smirks.

My own smirk is slow to follow, but true. A girl after my own heart.

“So, what do you think about Miss Malloy?” Dad asks me as we start compiling the file on the bombing. “I appreciated her directness, you know. She could’ve demurred about punching Hatfield, but she readily admitted to it. A tad too bloodthirsty for my taste, but appears a straight shooter.”

I stopped typing at his question about my thoughts on Nicole Malloy. Because this wasn’t the first time he asked it after we left the club. The first time was during the car ride back to the office. When he also told me about _his_ thoughts and impression on the club owner. I swallow heavily and slowly lift my head off the blinking cursor on my computer screen. Maybe I should’ve broached the subject sooner, but I somehow hoped that he’d get better. And if he didn’t, that he’d tell me the truth. But now, with this case, he needs to be in 100-percent in shape.

“Dad?”

He lifts his head with a, “Hmmm.”

“Is there something you want to tell me?”

He thinks a little. “No.”

I catch my lower lip between my teeth, debating whether I want to push him or not. “Okay, is there something you need to tell me?”

He frowns. “Veronica, what is this about?”

“I know you had a doctor’s appointment this morning.”

His frown darkens. “Since when do we snoop in our personal files?”

“Since forever,” I snap. “It’s not like you’re an angel. You had a tracker on me my entire two last years of high school. And—” I can’t believe he got me to lose my cool. I close my eyes, take a slow, deep breath, count to five and slowly let it out. “Look,” I say more calmly, “it’s too late now, I know about the appointment. What did the doctor say?”

He leans back in his chair, fiddling with his cane. “That I just have to keep taking my meds and going to physio.”

_And the other thing? What did the good, overworked doctor say about your memory problems?_ “That’s it?”

“Yeah.”

My Dad, the straight-up, honest man that has given me life, is lying to me. “Seems that meds and physio aren’t really helping.”

He shrugs. “It takes time.”

“Five years?” I scoff. “Maybe it’s time to switch doctors. Get a better one. One that actually cares.”

He sighs. “Veronica, my insurance won’t cover anything more. At least not a doctor who actually cares. Only money can guarantee that.”

“We have money,” I argue.

“And we need it to continue helping those in the community who aren’t as fortunate as us, Veronica. We’ve talked about this. We take our paychecks for what we need: your rent, monthly costs, the mortgage on my house. I can still use both my legs, I won’t increase my premium or switch doctors at the expense of someone who might need help and not be able to afford us.”

Fighting for the underdog and under-privileged. That is the Mars way.

He gets up with a wince, he’s overtaxed his leg today, and circles the desk to give me a peck on the cheek. “I’m heading home. Lock up, okay?”

I nod and softly bid him good night. It’s only when I hear the outer door close behind him, that I lower my face into my hands. I don’t know what to do. Give me a con, an adulterer, a murder, or a dog-napping, and I’m in my element, but this one has me stumped. This is my Dad and I don’t know how to help him. Scratch that, I _know_ how to help him, but he won’t let me. He won’t even _tell_ me.

I need an objective observer and I need objective advice.

I reach for my phone and then wince as I glance at the clock. It’s too late to call Jane, no matter what she said. But there’s the next best thing waiting for me at home.

I sigh heavily. Back to the communication business.


	8. Lover's spat

Pony is on me the moment I step through the door, covering my face with his sloppy doggy kisses. His breath never smells of expensive French perfume, but this time it’s even worse. It stinks like a clogged-up old sewer and whatever he slobbered on my face tastes even worse.

“Gross,” I mutter, pushing him away. “Pony, what did you get into?” Did something die in the alley and he ate it? Should I give the vet a call?

“I made paella,” Logan answers from behind the stove, tasting what is probably rice from his palm. “And I basically used every pan we own. So, you’re welcome and I’m sorry.” I must have gone pale, because he quickly shakes his head. “And I haven’t developed amnesia. Still allergic.” He makes a hand motion like a TV-shopping channel personality presenting an item. “No shellfish in sight, only a liberal amount of fish sauce.” He takes a good sniff, makes a face. “A _very_ liberal amount.” He smirks. “Again, sorry.”

I wash Pony’s fish sauce flavored saliva off my face, but I still have the memory of his foul breath deep inside my nostrils. “Smells good,” I say, stand on tiptoes and welcome Logan’s soft kiss. He, on the other hand, smells very good.

“No, it doesn’t,” he chuckles, “but maybe I can salvage it a little. It does taste rather nice, though.”

“Listen...” I circle the kitchen counter and perch on my stool. “I need to tell you something.”

“Me first,” he quickly says, squeezing a half of lemon into the pan. “You remember that Clyde person, Big Dick’s new bestie?”

I’m not really in the mood for gossip, but whatever. “Yeah?”

“He used to rob banks.” He stirs vigorously. “You know, Big Dick’s all sort of hard about that. I guess that they shared a cell in Chino.”

I roll my eyes. Of course. “Two Chino alums, now community leaders. What is wrong with this town? What is wrong with these _people_?” I throw my arms in the air. “At least _one_ of their loved ones or friends was shafted by Big Dick, they _know_ what he did and they don’t care. He’s the one who thought up the nutjobs—”

“I think it’s NUTT,” Logan interjects, but quickly lifts his hands in surrender. “Sorry,” he says with a smirk. “Do go on.”

“They’re trying to take jobs from people, their livelihood, so I guess they chose the right leader,” I growl. “What is wrong with these _people_?” I ask again.

“Well.” Logan quirks his eyebrow. “Are you done, can I put in my two cents?” He grins when I growl. “I believe, society as a whole has become rather desensitized to everything thanks to the news and media constantly bombarding us with unprecedented levels of content. There’s too much of everything for people to really focus on the real issues or really see the bigger picture, so they focus on little, immaterial, unimportant things and don’t really care about anything that doesn’t satisfy their current impulse or need.” He shrugs. “Which is exactly the point of the whole process. Emotional desensitization. It’s divide and conquer all over again.”

I can do nothing else but stare at him. So long, so hard and so silently, an actual blush spreads high on his cheekbones. Which is beyond adorable.

“What?” he asks, scratching his freakishly long neck, which is a clear sign he’s uncomfortable. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

I lean my elbow on the counter and drop my chin into my palm. “What are you doing in the Navy? You should be a philosopher, an anthropologist. Hey!” I straighten and point my finger at him. “_You_ should be a community leader. If you ask me, with brains like yours and reasoning like that, you’re wasting your potential in the Navy, oh great Yoda Echolls.”

“It all a higher purpose serves. Much to learn you have. Hmmmmm.” He flicks rice at me, making me laugh. “So what did you want to tell me, before you distracted me with your compliments of my brain and philosophic prowess?”

I can no longer postpone it. And if I don’t tell someone, I might explode. I drop my hands in my lap and look down at my trembling fingers. “It’s Dad,” I tell him softly.

Logan immediately turns off the gas and comes to sit by me. Because that’s who he is, how he operates. He’s a nurturer at heart. “What happened?”

“He’s sick.”

“Oh, baby,” he murmurs, slowly running his large palm up and down my back. “What is it? You know it’ll help if you let it out.”

I nod. Of course, I know. We learned it together. So I bite the bullet. “He has dementia. Or at least his doctor put him on meds for it.”

“Did he tell you today?”

I shake my head. “No, I’ve known for a while now. I was waiting for him to tell me, almost blurted it out today, but he keeps saying he’s fine.”

“If he didn’t tell you, how do you know?”

Trust Logan to go for the juiciest meat. “Mac hacked his medical records.”

Logan chuckles softly, never stopping the soothing movement of his hand. “Of course she did. It was probably a piece of cake.”

I frown at him. “Meaning.”

“Come on, Veronica. _I_’d probably be able to hack that doctor’s records.” He sighs. “They have too many patients and not enough staff, so trust me they’re not putting their profits into security; patient confidentiality and possible breaches be damned. Keith should switch doctors. See someone who isn’t overworked, who actually gives a damn beside seeing his or her next paycheck, and get that damn hip replaced.”

If I look at him with at least half the gratitude I’m feeling at the moment, he’s about to drown in it. I _knew_ I could talk to Logan. I _knew_ he’d understand. Maybe I can enlist his help in changing Dad’s mind. “That’s what I told him. But he refuses, because the one he has is the only one he can afford on his insurance.” We can surely cut back on the pro bono jobs for a while, until he gets his hip and head fixed.

“Veronica.”

The strange tone of Logan’s voice pulls me out of my plotting, and the look on his face makes my heart sink. I know what he’s thinking. I know what he’s about to say and I refuse to go through this again. “No!” I snap. “We won’t use your money!”

It always comes down to this. It’s been coming down to this for the past five years. Ever since the accident. He’d offered to pay Dad’s hospital bill, he’d offered to help him upgrade his insurance, pay the premium himself if necessary, he’s been repeatedly offering to set Dad up with the best orthopedic surgeon to fix his hip...

“_My_ money?” Logan slowly moves away and I immediately feel the loss of his warm hand, his presence. He’s not looking at me, but at the floor. Then he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. When he finally lifts his head, his face is expressionless, his eyes empty. “_My_ money.” He repeats. “It always comes down to this, doesn’t it. It’ll always come down to this. _My money_,” he says monotonously. “Or better yet, my parents’ money. The trust fund left to me by my alcoholic mother and murderous, cradle-robbing father.”

I’d prefer him getting angry like in high school, yell, break furniture and lamps. That wouldn’t scare me, because I know he’d never hurt me. The monotonous voice, the blank expression, the dead eyes...Those scare me. They make him look like a stranger. “Logan...”

He lifts his hand to stop me, shakes his head. “I’m not using that money, because I don’t need it. It’s a nest egg for emergencies. For _family_ emergencies. Because you never know what might happen. Keith, _your father_, the only father figure I’d had in my life, the best approximation of a _father_, I’ll get, is sick and needs help. If that’s not a _family emergency_, I don’t know what it is, seeing how we’re _engaged_ and all, how you two are the only_ family_ I have, beside Dick. But no. You don’t want to use _my _money. Because it’s not _your_ money. You won’t claim it not even after we’re married. It’ll always be _my money_, won’t it, Veronica? I might understand Keith’s reasoning, if I squinted really hard. I’m not a good bet given my history, but the fact is, I’ve changed. He’s accepted me, he’s embraced me, dare I hope, as a son. But he still refuses to use _my money_, because it’s _mine_, and I’m the last descendant of Aaron Echolls, a stark reminder of the man that almost killed both of you.”

No, it has nothing to do with who he is or was and it has nothing to do with Aaron. How can he even contemplate such thoughts? He’s nothing like Aaron. And Dad has accepted him as a son, he’s told me so, I’ve seen it, experienced it. How can he—

“I hoped you might change his mind eventually,” Logan continues, fists clenched at his sides. “But now I see you’re on the same wavelength as him. As always.” He shakes his head. “No matter what I do, I’ll never be good enough, will I? I’ll always be tainted. _My money_ will always be tainted.” He grabs Pony’s leash from the hook by the door and the dog scrambles to him, tail wagging in blissful unawareness. “I’m taking Pony for a walk, I need some air anyway.”

He walks through the door without a backward glance, leaving me staring at the closed door with burning eyes and a breaking heart. Not for me, but for him. Because I hurt him. Both Dad and I hurt him again and again by refusing his help, his money. I drop my head in my hands and let the tears come, because I’m the true bad guy here. I’m the one who’s known him for over twenty years, the one who knows him best, and the one who can hurt him most, the one who _is_ hurting him the most by pushing him away, turning down his help, when I know best of all that he only wants to help and protect those he consider his and that there are so few of us left in this category.

For once, the two voices in my head, the adult and the bitchy teenager, are in utter accord.

_You’re petty. You’re proud. You’re afraid. What can you possibly be afraid of? The boy loves you, God only knows why, and you two have laid each other bare for the other too many times to count. So what are you afraid of? Why are you so petty and proud? Why are you so fucking stubborn? He just wants to share what is his with those he considers his. So what is your problem?_

I wish I knew.

_Cut the crap. You _know_ what your problem is, you’re just too stubborn, proud and afraid to admit it to yourself, to tell him. That’s why you two always end up fighting about the same damn thing._

Yet this wasn’t like our usual fights, when we turn to banter, and then end it with a smile and a kiss before the squabble even begins, like the night of our engagement. Or when we scream at each other and then end up on the floor or against the wall, sweaty, panting, and still half-dressed. Which is a perfect recipe for never going to bed angry.

_But the argument is never resolved, is it? You just use humor and sex to push it away, until it rears its ugly head. Sooner or later it had to come to this, don’t you think? Sooner or later something had to give, you just never expected it to be your relationship._

I lift my head in shock at the thought. Our relationship is stronger than this. This is just a minor hurdle.

_Is it?_

The insidious whisper of two voices, who usually have opposite opinions, sounding in unison makes me nauseous. Sure, this communicating business between me and Logan is hard, but all worthy things are, and we make it work.

_Do you? Then why did he walk out thinking you don’t really love him, believing you think less of him, consider him less worthy because of his money? Do you think he’d done it, if he knew the real reason behind your stubbornness in refusing in not convincing Keith in accepting his help?_

No, he wouldn’t. And if I did, he’d come after me. So what am I still doing here, crying and talking to myself when the man I _need_ to talk to is out there thinking I don’t really want him.

Silly, silly man.

I brush away my tears, square my shoulders and prepare to eat some humble pie.

It’s not a question of turning left or right at the bottom of the stairs, there’s only one place I’ll find Logan. The beach.

It takes a while for my eyes to adjust to the dark, once I leave the comforting glow of the lights illuminating the boardwalk, but once they do, I easily spot the lone, tall figure silhouetted slightly against the sky, staring at the sea with his hands in his pockets, and the dog faithfully sitting by his side.

I see his shoulders stiffen when I approach. “Shouldn’t you be at your dad’s by now, cursing my name?” he asks.

I wince. Dad and I have an unhealthy co-dependence, I freely admit it, and we’ve both been trying to shake it, and rather succeeding, but this is the first time Logan has thrown it into my face. He has all the right and if I weren’t fully in the wrong here, I’d probably _be_ at Dad’s venting at Logan’s behavior. But _this_ is between Logan and me. _This_ is fully my fault and I have to fix it. Somehow.

“You didn’t really let me talk before—” 

“Veronica.” His tone is resigned. “I need to be alone. I _want_ to be alone. Please, just go. We’ll talk in the morning.”

He doesn’t sound convincing and my heart constricts. Could it really be too late? No, I refuse it to be.

“No, we won’t,” I tell him. “We’ll just pretend everything is fine, as we’ve done so many times after this argument.” Only this time it was worse. It would be worse. “We need to talk about it.”

He shakes his head, still staring at the sea, away from me. “We _have_ talked. We’ve been talking about it for five years. The joke’s on me for hoping your stance might change.” He turns, again away from me, and whistles to Pony who, with a look that would be judgmental coming from a human, quickly follows.

Serves me right, really, in now being unable to get through to him, while I shoved him away so many times before. But I’m nothing if not stubborn, and I’m too afraid to lose him, too afraid that I’ve just lost the best thing that ever happened to be, to let it go for now and leave it for the morning. He might not be there in the morning.

“Wait!” I rush after man and dog. “You got it all wrong.”

His turn is so sudden, a dichotomy to his previous slow, almost languid movements, that I slam into his chest, but he quickly steps back as if unwilling to let me touch him. “Wrong? Pray, tell me where I got it wrong, Ronnie.”

The snarled nickname transports me back to junior year in high school and I swallow. Gone is the sanded down version of angry Logan from before, the leash has snapped. But I’m still not afraid of him, despite the notorious volatility and unpredictability associated with his current emotional state. I’m actually more comfortable with dealing with him now, this Logan is familiar. I prefer the waves of his anger, the shaking of his voice to the blank expression and monotonous delivery from before.

“It’s not you, it’s me.”

He rolls his eyes. “Really, you’re going with the cliché?”

“Listen to me!” I place both palms on his chest and give him a shove, wanting to follow it with a punch to the gut, since he barely sways. “I never thought of you as less, okay?! Or tainted or whatever crap you said before. And I don’t really care about you changing, because there was nothing wrong with you in the first place, no matter what I said in senior year. And the only claim Aaron has on you is your last name. I never see him when I look at you, I never think of him and what he did when I look at you. You’re his complete opposite in every single way and the only one drawing comparisons and having hang-ups about your connection to him is you. And I know Dad feels the same, he might not tell you, we Marses are silent types, but it shows and if you can’t see it you’re blind.” I’m feeling lightheaded and out of breath, but I know I have to get this out, before I lose him. “The problem is the money. Not where it came from, I don’t really care who left you the trust fund or how they got it. It’s the money, okay!”

He glares at me. “I know it’s the money. Weren’t you there when I told you so before?”

“You got that wrong as well,” I snap.

“Cut the crap, Veronica.”

I give him another shove. “No, you cut it and listen. I don’t want—”

“_My money_,” he snaps. “Yeah, you made that plain.”

My eyes burn with unshed tears of frustration. “Why won’t you let me finish?” My voice trembles and I hate it.

He cocks his head, he must’ve realized how close the meltdown is, but instead of taking me into his arms, like he usually does, he crosses them over his chest. “Finish, then.”

“I—” My voice breaks. Great, now I have performance anxiety. “I don’t want you to think I’m with you because of your money,” I say in a near whisper. There it is. The bare bone truth coupled with a generous heaping of embarrassment for having admitted it.

He reels back in shock. “What?” he breathes.

I shrug, staring down at where I’m twisting my bare foot into the sand, hugging my arms around my midriff. “I don’t want you to think I’m with you because you’re rich,” I repeat louder.

“I never did.”

I shrug again as I fight tears and try to swallow past the gigantic lump in my throat. He might not have thought it, but I know other people have. I saw the stares in high school and the first year of college, I sometimes still see them when we happen to be in old 09er circles. It isn’t often, since he has even less in common with them nowadays than I do, but still, the judgment and smugness chafe.

“I never did, Veronica,” he repeats.

The bewilderment and the hurt that I might not believe him in his voice break me. I take the two steps to bridge the distance between us and lean my forehead against his chest, sobbing. “I know,” I whisper and in turns into a sigh, when his arms come around me, warm and comforting.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me this before?”

I’m still hugging myself, wishing beyond anything to be able to circle his waist with my arms and hold on, but this is my penance. “Because it’s stupid. And childish. And it makes me feel like I’m back in high school between the have-nots.”

“Why do you care what others think?” he whispers. He takes my shoulders and pushes me away, so he can look at me, tucks a finger under my chin to make him look at him. “You’re Veronica Mars, you should be impervious to outside influence and misconceptions.”

I sniff and wipe one hand under my nose, drinking in his slight smile, his clear eyes. There’s still hurt there, but it’s lessened.

“Have you ever considered all those that make you feel insecure, that make you feel like they’re looking down on you for being a gold digger, just might be jealous of you?”

I sniff again. What is he talking about?

“You’re a successful PI who was featured in _Vanity Fair_. You’re a lawyer with a psychology degree. You charge exorbitant amounts of money to your rich clients so you can help those in need and you have a pretty clear picture of what you want in life,” He shrugs. “Those in my former circles, who even Dick isn’t overly keen to hang out with anymore, might I add, don’t have a clue, they never did. They only know how to spend and exploit, without any idea how to provide for themselves or how to help others.” He taps a finger on my nose. “You, my dear, intimidate them and the only weapon they have against you, apparently, is your insecurity. Which is adorable, by the way, but entirely misplaced and stupid.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?”

“Apparently you do. So will you stop being stupid?”

I merely look at him. If it is about the money issue, I just might, but if it’s a question of a more broader nature, he should know that no one can just stop being stupid.

“Money is a non-issue, Veronica,” he says. “As I said before, it’s there for emergencies and for family. It’s obvious Keith’s current doctor isn’t cutting it anymore, he needs to see a specialist, we both know that. And he has to fix that hip, if it’s not too late already. It’s been going on too long.”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“So?” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Shall we dispense with the bull and the Mars pride?”

“I’ll talk to him first thing in the morning.”

His smile lights up his entire face. “That’s all I ask.”

I dare place my palms on his sides. “Are we good?” I ask softly.

He nods. “We’re good. But you need to talk to me, Veronica. We need to talk to each other about things like that.”

I hum. As Jane keeps hammering home, communication is key. This fight is only proof of it. “I’ll try, but as I told you before, we Marses are silent types.”

He kisses my forehead. “Let’s start with try and see where it takes us.”

I finally circle his waist with my hands, tuck my head beneath his chin and smile as his arms come around me as he hugs me tight. It feels so good, I might start crying all over again.

“Logan?”

“Hmmm?”

“You know how you said people are jealous of me?”

“Yeah?”

“Well,” I say smuggly. “You forgot the most important item on their to-be-jealous-of-Veronica list.”

“And what is that?”

I lift my head and grin up at him. “You.”

His eyes are dancing with laughter. “Why, thank you, darling.”

“You’re welcome.” I turn serious. “I love you. You can take that as an absolute. No matter what I say or do, that might make you doubt that, don’t. I love you, Logan Echolls. No matter your financial status or family ties and history. I. Love. You.”

“I love you, too.” There are tears in his eyes as he leans down for an overdue kiss.

It starts deep and languid, but quickly turns into heat and frantic need as teeth clash and tongues dance and we’re trying to get to as much skin as possible, forgetting we’re on a public beach, albeit in the dark of night.

It’s Pony that brings us to our senses—barely. Our loving dog, obviously overjoyed by his parents’ reconciliation, decides he wants in on the action and wiggles, an almost impossible feat, between us, barking, licking, and whining, so we have no choice but to break the kiss so Logan can tell him to stop before all three of us end up in the sand.

Then, jaw set in a determined line and without a word, my Navy boy throws me over his shoulder and carts me home, his long legs eating up the yards to our apartment, where Pony once more throws a sulk-fest as we indulge in a long and sweaty session of make-up sex on every possible surface, and discover that Logan’s faux-paella, even stone-cold, is surprisingly good.


	9. Conversations

Dad and I are sitting on Penn Epner’s leather couch in Penn Epner’s basement apartment, feeling rather uncomfortable as Penn Epner, the pizza guy who dared insult Dad via Twitter—for which he still deserves an ass-kicking, if you ask me—rummages through his fridge wearing a thick cardigan and shorts. Talk about loser ensemble.

“I’ve been in your homes and Mars Investigations, I don’t know...” He looks at the two of us. “How many times would you guess?”

Dad sighs. “Oh, man.” He nudges me with his knee. “Veronica?”

Like I care. “Too many to count.”

Epner’s face turns petulant. “How come you guys don’t order Cho’s pizza anymore?”

“You know, I’m not sure.” Another knee nudge from Dad. “Why don’t we?”

Because the delivery guy, probably Epner, always arrived late and with a cold and greasy pizza. Because Mama Leone’s are a hundred-times better, with the batter made from scratch instead of frozen a long time ago, they deliver promptly, so the pizza is still hot and the cheese runny as if just pulled out of the oven. “Carbs,” I say instead.

“Oh.” Epner nods, looking down at his _gut._

_Yeah, buddy, you might lay off carbs as well._

He lifts the two beer bottles he’s holding. “Did you want one?”

Dad shakes his head. “No. Thanks.”

I wave my hand. “I’m good.”

And Epner puts the bottles back into the fridge. He might want to lay off beer as well, if he wants to get rid of the gut. “So what can I do to help?”

I look at Dad. “Well, my dad would like to ask you what you remember at the Sea Sprite.” Then I school my features into the you’re-about-to-get-your-ass-kicked expression. “And I would like to politely ask you to take down that tweet about him.” Then I smile. It definitely doesn’t reach my eyes. “After that, who knows where things are gonna go?” _Toward Asskick Town, if you don’t take down the tweet._

Completely oblivious, Epner grins like a demented child on Christmas. “You follow me, huh?”

_Yuck._ “My fiancé forwarded it.” It feels nice saying it. Very nice. If I was a guy, I’d probably puff out my chest. As it stands, I have nothing to puff out, but still, it feels nice hearing the word.

Epner’s gaze flickers to my left hand and the ring on my finger. “Congratulations.”

I incline my head graciously. “Thank you.”

He shrugs. “Even if you don’t follow me, that’s cool. I mean, last week I had 47 followers, all Murderheads. Now, it’s more than 2,000.” His chest does puff out a little. “So anything I witnessed, it’s all there in the tweets.”

_Half of it made up and half exaggerated._

“But since we’re here...” Dad prompts.

Epner rolls his eyes, puts his beer bottle onto the table and slides his hands into the pockets of his cardigan. “Yeah, okay. Shoot.”

I have to ask. “Murderheads?”

Epner’s face falls even more, which, I’m sure, is a feat. “You’ve never heard of us?”

Dad makes a noncommittal sound, but I just come out and say it. “Nope.”

Epner sighs, looking at us like we’re heretics. “We’re an online community of justice seekers devoted to solving cold cases.”

_Lord have mercy._

“Is that so?”

Dad sounds like he’s about to start laughing, so it’s my turn to nudge him. “You know what, on second thought, I will take that beer.” There’s nothing that can wipe this strange taste out of my mouth, but I need something to do with my hands instead of punching Epner, so I stand to follow him to the fridge, sending a warning glare to Dad.

“You know,” Epner informs us grandiosely as he hands me the beer (what kind of a gentleman doesn’t open the bottle for a lady?!), “the information we found led to the capture of the Long Beach Strangler.”

Dad nods, his face glowing like he’s had an epiphany. “Murderheads! Now it’s ringing a bell.”

If obviously isn’t, but you have to know the man to tell the difference.

I flick at the bottle cap. “So you deliver pizzas _and_ solve murders.” Yeah, I’m not impressed. And I’ve never heard of the Long Beach Strangler.

“You left the motel office right as the bomb went off?” Dad continues.

Epner makes a hand shrug. “Five seconds prior. I walked out, I waved to Matty, and then: boom. Me, I—I caught some shrapnel in the back.” He looks at me. “But how lucky was I?”

Lucky? Boy, what a poor choice of words. But I’m still flicking at the cap, silent, letting Dad do the talking.

“So the motel owner’s daughter would've been looking straight into the office?”

Epner nods. “Yeah.” Then shakes his head dejectedly. “She saw the whole thing, that poor kid.”

Now, there’s the opposite of luck. Watching your father explode. I’d probably be a vegetable by now.

“And what happened next?” Dad asks.

A shrug. “Then I woke up at the hospital. I don’t even know how I got there.”

I’m looking at a spot where to place my untouched beer—it holds no appeal, it never did in the first place—when a cheer rises from outside. Or maybe from above. It’s the boardwalk, spring-break central.

Dad rolls his eyes. “You ever ask the landlord to keep it down?”

Epner laughs. It’s the first genuine reaction from the man since we walked in. “You think I live here?” He circles his pointed finger to illustrate our not-so-appetizing surroundings. “That’d be pretty sad.”

I could give him a list of what is truly sad about him and his accommodation isn’t in the top five.

“But the people in the house—” Dad starts.

“The house is mine,” Epner interrupts. “I move here in April, rent the place out to spring breakers.” He chuckles. “I clear 50K a month. The place sleeps ten.”

He looks so complacent, I want to slap him. “So why are you working as a pizza delivery guy? Obviously not for the money.” I’m genuinely intrigued. “You love pizza so much, or are you an everyday Santa making people happy with pizza instead of gifts?”

Epner stammers a bit, realizing he’s revealed too much. “I—I like delivering pizzas. And yes, it’s not for the money, I just like it. We at Cho’s make a great team.”

He’s so full of bullshit, I’m surprised it doesn’t ooze out of his ears. Something smells here and it’s not this basement apartment. There’s something off about this pizza guy. But there will be time to dwell on it, and investigate, later. I have a more pressing matter to discuss. “Let’s get back to the tweets, then.”

“Veronica,” Dad warns, but I ignore him.

“So.” I take a menacing step toward Epner, and even though he’s larger, if not taller, than me, he shrinks back slightly, giving me immense satisfaction. “You called my dad a clown or a scoundrel, and if I wore gloves, this would be when I peel one off and smack you across the face.” _Or punch you, either way works for me._

“Okay.” Epner takes another small step back and lifts his hands in surrender. “I’ll take down the tweet. Let’s call it professional courtesy.”

I smirk. “From one pizza delivery guy to two people who do not do that.” What a douche.

“I mean...” Epner tries to go for sheepish, but there’s calculation and derision in his eyes. “Didn’t he lose the election because of evidence tampering?”

“He wasn’t the one tampering,” I enlighten him. “That was me.” And I still regret it.

Epner, who deep down is also a rotten bastard, keeps digging his own grave. “And didn’t he go after the wrong guy in your best friend’s murder?”

If it weren’t for Dad’s restraining hand on my shoulder, I’d go for one of the dirtier moves Logan taught me.

“Go ahead and leave up the tweet, Mr. Epner.” Dad nods to him, still holding me back. “Thanks for your time.”

“Do you think they’ll ever figure out who murdered Lilly Kane?”

Dad has to literally drag me out of the basement or risk his only daughter going to jail for murder.

“There’s something off about Epner, don’t you think?” Dad asks when we get to the office.

I make a noncommittal sound, Penn Epner having been relegated to the back of my mind for later processing, I have a bigger issue to tackle. Epner’s apartment had been our first stop this morning, having met there instead of either of us coming into the office first, so I didn’t get the chance to talk to Dad before.

“Could you come to my office, please?” I ask and lock the outer door behind us. Until Mac returns from her vacation, we’re short someone to mind the reception desk and keep possible waiting clients occupied, so the lock it is.

When I sit behind my desk and point at the chair in front of it, Dad looks at me funny, then lowers himself into the chair with a smirk. “Am I in trouble, mom?”

There’s no point in beating around the bush. I have not the time nor the patience for it. “I know about your memory problems. And the drug for dementia,” I dive right in.

Dad’s face darkens. “And how do you know about it?” At least he’s not denying it.

“I had Mac hack your records,” I explain matter-of-factly.

“For someone with a law degree, you should know we have privacy laws in this country, not to mention medical confidentiality and physician-patient privilege.”

I glower. “We’re not in court, Detective. I’m your daughter and I’m worried about you.”

“Don’t be.”

I scoff. “Looks like I have no choice.” I lift my palm to silence him. “And since you refused to talk to me, I took matters into my own hands to find out the truth, which is, let’s be honest here, what you would’ve done, if our roles were reversed.”

He sighs. “Veronica...”

“When were you planning on telling me? When you didn’t recognize me anymore?” I frown. “_Were_ you planning on telling me?”

Another sigh. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

“You’re my father!”

He nods. “And you’re an adult. You have your own life, your own problems and troubles, and you can take care of yourself even if I’m not there.”

I stare at him incredulously. “So, what, were you planning on walking out onto the ice and disappear? I never considered you a martyr, Dad.”

He shakes his head, lifting his hands in a placating manner. “I’m not, I just didn’t want you to worry about me, my doctor and I are taking care of it.”

I snort. “Yeah, and you’re obviously doing a great job.” I silence him again. “Listen, you’re my father, and you’ve taken care of me for half of my life. It’s time I return the favor.”

He arches an eyebrow, twirling his cane. “And how will you do that? Shoot me and put me out of my misery instead of letting me walk out onto the ice?”

My father is such a comedian. He should do stand-up. People would certainly pay for him to stop. “Not until it’s necessary.” I grin, all teeth, no warmth. “But you will change doctors, go to a specialist. And an orthopedic surgeon while you’re at it.”

He leans forward, anger sparking in his eyes. “We’ve already discussed it last night. I’m not taking money out of the company account.”

I nod. “Agreed.”

He stares at me for a heartbeat. And another, before realization dawns. “No!” he snaps. “I’m not taking Logan’s money.”

“Why not?” I ask softly. Did I misread him? Did I mislead Logan last night? I refuse to believe it, but what if—

“Because it’s _his_ money, _he_ should use it.”

“He wants to use it any way it pleases him,” I explain.

Dad shakes his head vehemently. “No, I won’t take it?”

“Why?” I ask again, as my voice starts to shake. “Is it because it’s Aaron’s money? Because you don’t trust Logan because of his past? Because you cannot separate father from son?” God, please, don’t let it be true.

“No!” Dad gasps. “How can you even think that?” He shrugs. “Granted, I wasn’t always that boy’s biggest fan, but he’s proved himself over and over again. He sticks around no matter what, he’s loyal, he loves you beyond reason and is willing to do anything to protect you and keep you safe. If nothing else, that is reason enough for me to trust him. He’s _nothing_ like the bastard that sired him.”

I wipe at the tears running down my cheeks, wishing Logan was here to hear this, to help him put his heart and mind at ease. “Then why do you refuse his help?”

“Because...” Dad stares mulishly down at his feet. “Because I don’t want to be indebted to anyone, no matter who they are, you know that. And it’s Logan’s money, he might need it one day.” He shrugs, setting his chin at the stubborn angle I notice every once in a while looking at my reflection in the mirror. “Besides, if he’s not using it, why should I?”

It makes me want to laugh, because we Marses truly are two peas in a pod. Stubborn, proud and obtuse. “So you’re telling me it’s only pride preventing you in taking your future son-in-law’s offer of help?”

He looks taken aback. Figures he’s never thought of it in those terms before.

I nod. “So it’s only pride making you hurt your future son-in-law’s feelings, making him think you’re rejecting his help out of some deep-rooted resentment and his connection to Aaron Echolls.” I sniff. “I almost lost him because of that same pride.”

“What are you talking about?” he whispers, turning a little green.

“You heard me right.” I make a head shrug. “We had a fight last night. Not the first because of his damn trust fund, but first one really serious. First one in five years, when he finally came out and told me what he thinks the reasons for our refusal of using his money for anything are.”

“Shit.”

I nod. “It’s not true, thank God, none of those reasons are true, but the fact remains, we’ve been hurting him out of pride. He said he doesn’t need the money, but keeps it for family emergencies. And we’re the only family he has left, Dad. And we’re hurting him.” I shake my head in disgust. “Out of stupid pride,” I snarl. “I thought I was done hurting him when we got back together after the reunion, I refused to hurt him anymore, but I still did. Still _do_.” I slam my fist onto my desk. “And it has to stop! He wants to help. He _needs_ to help.” I look at him imploringly. “Let him. Please, Dad. _Please._”

His eyes glisten suspiciously when he stands and circles the desk to pull me into his arms. “I had no idea,” he whispers into my hair. “I—I’ll come by tonight. I need to talk to that boy.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, clinging a little, because he’s my dad and deep down, I’ll always be daddy’s little girl.


	10. Searching for a witness

The moment the little shit called Troy, who likes to antagonize his new stepmother told that same stepmother that his scooter and helmet were gone, I could feel a grin spread over my face. After feeling slightly guilty for turning down Clyde Pickett’s plea for helping him find his ex and miffed that Dad would not be able to join me for our interview with Matty Ross, the fact the girl had obviously seen me place a tracking device on her car and gave me the slip made my day appear more sunny and light.

I’m weird that way.

So here I am, in the courtyard of the Sea Sprite, having followed the kid on a merry go round of Neptune boardwalk neighborhood.

Psst. Don’t tell this to anyone, but I knew exactly where the girl would end up, but it’s always a hoot making the target think they have the upper hand. _As if_.

And there is Troy’s scooter, parked against the entrance to one of the rooms on the first floor. And since I have no intention of playing the game Matty obviously wants to play—she chose the wrong playmate for that—I place another tracking device, a much smaller one, under the deck of the seemingly abandoned scooter and peer inside the room.

It looks lived in, the bed is unmade with clothes strewn on it. I try the sliding door, but it’s locked. Of course it is. Miss Ross might be an amateur, but she’s obviously not stupid. Luckily, I always come prepared, hence the lock-picks in my bag.

It’s obvious, this is where Matty is staying. If the obvious disarray screaming of teenage angst isn’t a good indicator, the large photo of the motel owner on the dresser is a dead giveaway. I check the bathroom, just to make sure, but of course the girl isn’t there. As I said, she’s not stupid.

I take a longer, slightly more thorough look around the room. There’s dust on the furniture; she might live in here, but she’s not keen on keeping it clean. A charred remnant of string art leans against the wall by the bed. It must’ve hung in the reception. I squint at it. What’s left of the colors, something blue and yellow, is muted, the middle of the piece blackened, the strings hanging limply from mangled nails, but I think...I circle the bed, yeah, the yellow blob was probably the sun and the blue thing waves. A rather quaint, childlike rendition of an ocean scene out of string and nails hanging in the reception of a motel overlooking the real deal.

Rather ironic.

I shake my head at the carpet sticking out strangely in the corner. It looks like the floorboards underneath aren’t aligned right, but before I can give into the urge to correct the dissonance—Logan’s influence, I’m sure, my man got OCD in the Navy—a noise prompts me to investigate.

The interconnecting door is unlocked, revealing another room, similar to Matty’s, in almost the same state of disarray, but obviously disused. All the further interconnecting doors are open wide, creating a corridor leading to the far wall. All the rooms are empty and there are no more sounds distracting me.

Having arrived to the end of the wing, I open the door leading back onto the deck...And grin at the disappearance of the scooter.

“Well played,” I acknowledge, “but I’m better.”

As always, I have perfect timing.

I come driving around the corner just in time to see Miss Matty Ross run out of Alpha-Jolly Amusements—what is she doing around the Fitzpatricks is currently beyond me. I stop in front of her, tires screeching, and open the door. If she’s not stupid, she’d come in.

“I’ve been looking for you,” I snap, the need to get out of the Fitzpatrick turf gnawing at me.

“Great, you found me!” Matty slides in and slams the door. “No go!”

Unfortunately, the motley crew of Fitzpatricks and company is too fast, cornering us. I’m tempted to turn on the wipers and floor it, happens what happens, but I know it would be pretty iffy claiming self defense. And there’s Liam Fitzpatrick, maniacal grin firmly in place, tapping on my passenger side window with a wrench.

And I so don’t want to be here anymore so I go for my bag. The only way Matty, my car, and I will make it out of here in one piece.

Liam makes to break the glass, leans down and the sight of my gun, hand steady and sure, stops him short. The last time we met like this, it was Logan holding the gun, but unlike that time, now the weapon is loaded.

“Nah-ah,” I say with a joviality I’m far from feeling, stretching my lips into a feral smile. It’s good seeing him rattled, afraid even. “Hey, Liam, long time.” The smile is gone as fast as it appeared. “Back away from the car, would ya?”

His hands are up in surrender. What a pleasant view.

“Okay, okay,” he mutters. Then looks at his cronies. “Let them go. Move! Move!”

Without bothering to stash the gun, I simply floor it.

We’re back in boardwalk territory and Matty is directing me to where she’s parked her car. As if I don’t know where it is. _Child, please._

She unbuckles her seat belt. “So, um, thanks.”

I place my hand on her arm to stop her. “Do you have any idea how dangerous those people are that you were messing with?” I’m pissed that she risked it.

She looks unconvinced. “No?”

I want to smack her. You don’t go looking for trouble without making at least basic reconnaissance. “Alpha-Jolly Amusements is owned by Liam Fitzpatrick, leader of the Fitzpatrick family.” She obviously has never heard of them and I feel incredibly old. “There’s fourteen kids. 13 criminals, one priest.”

She shakes her head, still not having a clue. “Those guys chasing me were not all related.”

Like it matters! Jesus, are all kids these days this naïve? It makes me want to grit my teeth when she makes to get out again. “Most of their employees are guys they served time with. There is no telling how many operations are planned out of that place, which is why you should not be wandering around in there.” What would it take for the kid to see reason? Evidence photos? Actual blood and gore? “So why were you?” There’s only one possible reason, really. “You think one of them had something to do with the bomb?”

She tucks her hair behind her ears and nonchalantly opens the car door. “I need to get home. Thanks for the ride.”

If she were my kid, I’d be kicking her ass right about now. How dare she give me lip? “So that was the plan? Just go in there and rattle their cages? See what happens?”

“Maybe.” She actually has the audacity to roll her eyes at me. “I mean, what am I supposed to do? Sit at home? Grieve?”

That’s one thing she could do. Actually process things, instead of going off half-cocked...And who am I to judge? “You could tell the police your theory.”

Matty scoffs. Looks like I’m not the only one not really trusting the cops in getting to the bottom of this thing.

“You could tell me,” I offer.

“Yeah, right,” she deadpans. “Who do you work for?”

“Daniel Maloof, the congressman.”

She’s not impressed. “His little brother was in my dad’s face, demanding a refund when he was trying to check out early.” She shrugs. “If not for him, we might’ve been eating our pizza in Dad’s room. He’d still be alive.” Her disgust is apparent. “But no, the rich kid had to get his deposit so that he could go stay at the Neptune Grand.” She gets out of the car.

“What’s your theory, Matty?” I insist.

She merely closes the car door and leans down to look at me through the window. “Thanks for the rescue.”

She’s already in her car, when I call after her. “You only get one of those!”

She gives me one last look and drives away.

No matter what I say or do is going to keep the kid from stirring shit that she shouldn’t be stirring. It’s clear, she suspects the Fitzpatricks of planting the bomb that killed her father, which wouldn’t be beyond them, I just need to know how she made that connection and keep her from getting herself killed or ruining the case by tampering with possible evidence. Because I know how _that_ feels in the end.

The picture is pretty clear that Matty is on her way of becoming a bitter, vengeful shell of a teenager in agony of not knowing where to focus her rage. And who better to stop her from self-destructing and leading her on the better part than someone who’s been there and done it all before?

Now, if only I could get the two assholes off the hood of my car, I could be on my way. I don’t have the luxury of time on my hands. Revving the engine is no good, so I honk, becoming the recipient of multiple indignant stares.

Since I never was a person who let the judgment of others stop me in my stride or put me down, I merely smile, flip them the bird, drive off and hit the speed dial.

The call connects, but instead of the usual greeting, I hear Dick, “Dude, you gotta use the pilot as your buddy.”

Then Logan’s voice, slightly irritated, “I am a military officer. I should be able to get past these cult weirdos.”

Okay, this sounds too weird even for those two. “Hello?”

“Hey,” Logan finally acknowledges me. “You’re on speaker.”

Yeah, I kinda figured that one all by my lonesome. Yay, me. “Hey, Dick,” I greet as I wait for Logan to set down the game controller and pick up the phone so we can have a normal conversation without his doofus of a buddy listening in.

“Hey, Ronnie,” he croons, then curses. “What the hell, man!” he yells. “I was winning.”

“It’s only paused,” Logan snaps, then calmly says, “You’re not on speaker anymore. What’s up?”

“I talked to Dad.”

“Mhm.”

I roll my eyes. He sure has the knack of turning taciturn and brooding in the most inopportune moments. “He’s coming by later. He needs to talk to you.” A sigh. “About what we discussed last night.”

He echoes my sigh. “Okay, whatever.” He sounds resigned, as if he’s expecting the worst. Silly, silly man.

“Are we still good?” I tentatively ask.

We made love for what felt like hours after our argument last night, but he was gone when I woke up. We haven’t spoken since and I’m on shaky ground trying to judge if the truce last night is just a temporary reprieve—

“Yeah, we’re good.”

I breathe a little easier. “Okay, I’m picking up dinner for tonight. Any particular wishes?”

“You could buy a couple of steaks,” he suggests. “We can grill them when your father comes by.”

‘Your father’ not Keith. He’s still smarting. “Deal.” Then, since I’m smarting, too, and I need it, I add, “I love you.”

I’m not saying it often, it’s more implied than uttered, but sometimes words matter.

“I love you, too,” he says softly.

It feels like a caress, until Dick effectively ruins the moment. “Knock if off you two! You can smooch later, now it’s Far Cry time!”

“I hope that’s a video game.” I frown. Dick is Airbnb-ing his beach house to spring breakers, so where are they? “Wait, where are you two exactly?”

“Dick’s suite,” Logan explains.

“At the Grand?”

“Mhm.”

I grin. I must’ve been born under a lucky star. “Feel like doing me a favor?”

I hear Dick’s maniacal laughter in the background “Aw, suck it!”

“Anything,” comes Logan’s relieved response.

After a few similarly spent afternoons playing video games with Dick, I know just how he feels.


End file.
